


Achromatic

by AnontheNullifier



Series: Celestial Bodies [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Wanda, Completed, Established Relationship, F/M, Reality Bending, Requested fic, Sort of Amnesia, Vision does something stupid, Vision loses his mind, White Vision, both movie and comics inspiration, everyone pays the price
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-03-29 02:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, sometimes this means you save the day, and other times it means your lover comes out of a fight a different person. After a battle leaves Vision as someone that is not-quite-Vision, Wanda and the team try to figure out what went wrong and how to get him back.Inspired by the White Vision storyline of the comics.





	1. The Event

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rambeaufan3000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rambeaufan3000/gifts), [deathofink](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=deathofink).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision fails to save the day...and himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story started as an ask about my opinion of how White Vision would go down in the MCU. Then that turned into a dare to actually write the story. So, here is chapter 1. As the story continues, I'll leave footnotes with comic panels that were used as inspiration.
> 
> I've very loosely tied (like the string is barely attached) this to my Celestial Bodies collection, only because it is the return (sort of) of Cubey. This story would take place way way in the future and you don't have to have read that series to understand this one. If you would like to see what they are up against, here's the chapter: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8535118/chapters/24199335
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy this!

Wanda ducks into an alley, inching forward enough to peer around the corner and take in the carnage in the street. The mayor is, no doubt, going to hold a press conference laced with disdain and thinly veiled statements that never directly imply the Avengers will be paying for all the damage, but the expectation is clear. This time it will be a bill that might actually hurt Stark, three skyscrapers are smoking, at least fifty cars have been destroyed, a subway car just flew through Vision to raze an 80 year-old statue in the middle of the round-a-bout. “Everyone.” Wanda rotates her shoulders to bring her back against the rough edges of the brick wall, breath evening out as she listens to Tony’s droning in her earpiece, “Definitely the cube in the chest.” A debate had been raging over how Count Nefaria had not only come back (the last brush with him ended with his body finally showing the deterioration of his almost immortal life) but had come back stronger and younger.

“Okay,” Steve’s response is slow and measured, uninterested in the why so much as the, “how do we take him down then? Go for the cube?”

Wanda can feel Vision tensing through their mental link, eyes taking in the familiar pulsating glow of the cube strapped to Nefaria’s chest. “No,” Tony’s curtness brings Vision’s, and Wanda’s, attention away from the object. “You see, Steve,” the tone is one Rogers is no doubt bristling at, a condescending and omnipotent drip to the words, a _how cute_ embedded within the syllables, “Q*bert is-"

"You named it?"

"I did," the matter-of-fact response segues back into the initial explanation, "anyway, Q*bert is, based on my readings, quite sentient, super active and, most importantly, pissed off.”

A rush of air whispers across her cheek as Vision phases through the building to stand next to her, having apparently decided to abandon damage control long enough to strategize. He greets her with a soft smile and a brush of his fingers along her hip, but his eyes quickly focus and his face descends into a contemplative scowl as he conveys his thoughts to the rest of the team. “Are you implying our best strategy is to isolate the cube through its removal from Nefaria’s control?”

“Sure,” Tony’s response is surprisingly tentative, “though it might be better to phrase it as removing Nefaria from Q*bert's control, but that’s just semantics.” If Stark were actually at the fight, instead of safely holed up in his lab where Pepper insists he stays now that he’s officially retired, Wanda knows they’d all watch him wave his hand dismissively at the last comment. “Any takers?”

The next voice to enter the fray is calm and even-handed, the strategic genes running through her body clear in the pace of Natasha’s words. “We need to be careful, there’s fifteen people comatose in a hospital from touching this thing.”

“Correct-o-mundo,” Wanda considers shutting off the earpiece if Tony is going to keep cutting in, “which is why we need to send in someone similar in power and make-up to Nefaria.”

The impact of Sam’s feet on the roof breaks through the link, his fingers activating the comm unit too soon, which means they all wince at the interference in frequency, “Sorry bout that. So,” the whipping wind at the top of the building makes it hard to identify fully what he’s saying, “need someone practically indestructible, practically immortal, and can do weird stuff with their powers?”  

Wanda grins at the knowingly defeated sigh of the man next to her. “I suppose that leaves me, then?”  

A chorus of “Thanks, Vision!” intermingles with Steve’s far less enthusiastic, “Be careful and do not engage unless you have to,” and Tony’s paternalistic advice of, “Don’t fondle the cube, robo-son.”

Another sigh goes along with the furling of his fingers into tight fists, a nervousness blooming from his mind that never existed before the name Thanos became a regular part of their lives, before Vision began having waking nightmares of understanding what it means to be alive and dead and alive again within the span of days . Wanda steps closer to him, hand sliding along the slightly raised texture of his suit until she can encase one of his fists in her own fingers. “You want help out there?”

His eyes lower to her face, a minuscule uptick to the right side of his lips conveys his appreciation of the offer, but the steady click of his eyes confirms his answer. “I believe I will be able to manage this on my own,” his wrist rotates as his fist opens, fingers intertwining with hers, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against the skin revealed in the small opening of her glove. “Though,” his head cocks to the side in re-examination of his decision as he glances out towards the ionic waves laying ruin to the cityscape, “you are welcome to distract him, if you wish.”

“Only if you promise not to be distracted as well.”

Now a full smile dances across his face, irises spinning so quickly they practically sing and it is a sight that is more gorgeous than even the expansive canvas of the universe and its billions of stars. “I will do my best, but it is a herculean task.”

“I have faith in you.”

A quick, affectionate squeeze of her hand is his signal to leave, shoulders growing rigid with focus and confidence as his feet take him to the edge of the alley. They’ve been in similar situations numerous times, fighting villains, prepared to risk their lives, and each time she cannot help the surge of pride at the way his cape billows in preparation or the ache of unease at the chance this could end poorly. Wanda rushes four steps forward to grab his hand, arm yanking backwards to pivot his body and bring his chest even with hers. “Be safe, Vizh.”

The assurance is nonverbal, though still delivered by his lips as he stoops his back, hands flying to her face to brace her for a steady, unapologetically reassuring kiss that ends with his forehead flush against hers, the edges of the Mindstone a thrilling comfort on her skin. “I will.”

Wanda refuses to let go of his arms, eyes serious as she stares into his swirling irises, “Don’t you dare touch that thing.”

A grin goes along with the embarrassed shake of his head. “My hands will remain a safe distance at all times.”

“They better.” This time she allows him to leave, sucks in a steady breath that trails out from between her teeth as she reenters the street, hands lifted and ablaze with scarlet. Distraction is not nearly as easy as one might think, the flair for drama a necessary component. If she simply sent out sparks of power no one would notice, the ripples of the ionic waves from Nefaria’s own hands collide and blend with the finite flames of Sam and Rhodes’ assault weapons. No, to be noticed, to distract, requires all of her attention which means her eyes have to be torn from the ascending figure of Vision and the sunkissed temptation of his cape. Wanda steps her feet out wide, the right one just a hair in front of the left, and winds up her arms, scarlet twisting and snaking through her body, each bend in the river of her powers adding another layer of brilliance to the color, ensuring that, once she unleashes it, the aurora of kinetic energy will be far too tantalizing for anyone to look away from. Ideally that is when Vision will strike, and she trusts he will, this maneuver fine tuned and highly practiced, almost foolproof, though she accepts nothing can ever be free from going astray.  

The undulating of her powers obfuscate the surroundings, only the weaving, pulsing wall of scarlet visible to Wanda, but she is still in Vision’s mind, can feel the weightlessness of his descent, the surety of his actions, eyes honed in on the buckles of the harness clutching the cube. Then something odd happens, his flight slows, mind reels in what almost feels like fascination, of allure, something she’s only felt from him during the intimate moments they share.   Wanda’s own hands hesitate, scarlet lazily dissipating in front of her and then it is obliterated by an iridescent burst of furious light that sears her eyes, leaves spasming, floating echoes of multicolored flashes in her visual field. That’s when the screaming starts, Steve first and then Natasha, Sam drops out of the sky and they are all saying something, but it’s muted, words muffled and incomprehensible in the face of the eerie, unmistakable absence of thoughts in Vision’s mind.

 

Four hours later and Wanda sits in the uncomfortable plastic chair of the medical bay, fingers tangled, rings clicking together with each nervous squeeze of her hands. It’s been exactly fifty nine days since she last sat in a seat similar to this one, an oddity she’s never considered until now, the fact that every medical ward and hospital seem to have the same damn chairs. A little cushioning would be nice, but she supposes the idea, the hope, is that you won’t have to sit in it for long, or maybe it’s meant to discourage waiting, kindly suggesting that perhaps taking a lap around the hallway would do her body and mind well. Wanda doesn’t care, always prone to rebelling in the face of such obstinate and uncaring intentions, and so she sits, eyes burning from her attempts to not blink, worried that each time she allows her eyelids to touch the heart monitor might flatline or the alarms might buzz. This only serves to stoke the tears that unapologetically swerve down her cheeks, splashing gently against the leather of her jacket.

“He’s stable.”  People have been coming and going, hands smacking her back in sympathy, fingers cinching the fabric on her shoulders as empty words of encouragement filter in and out of existence, but one person has stayed. She is quiet, thankfully, and perhaps just as worried. Wanda attempts to smile at Helen’s attempt at comfort. “Can you,” an impressively steady hand brushes a strand of black hair out of her eye line, the only sign of Helen’s own unease the methodical way she cycles through checking each device, _hmming_ at the output and making adjustments when justified, “sense anything?”

Tony and Bruce like to argue Vision gets his scientific inquisitiveness from them, the Science Bros (well, fathers? The terminology is still up for debate) believing themselves the sole influence of objectivity and critical thought, but Vision is far more similar to Helen, his serene contemplation giving way to equally reserved though confident words, mind always gearing up for the next analysis. What both he and Helen also have in common is the acceptance that not all things can (yet, at least) be fully explained by science, both wholly intrigued by the chaotic and unpredictable nature of Wanda’s powers. This means Helen never asks Wanda to submit to tests (though the offer is open, no doubt) and treats Wanda’s own mental connection with Vision with far more reverence than anyone else.  As for Helen’s question, which is really more of a plea for assurance, Wanda knows the answer, has kept a tendril of scarlet attached to his mind since she fell to her knees next to his prone and unresponsive body, but nonetheless she waves her hand in pantomime, sends a whip of scarlet into the air and then shakes her head. “No, nothing.”

Helen nods, hands descending on the tubes running from the dozens of little suction cups attached to Vision’s skull, re-checking each one to make sure it is adhered properly, making this the fifteenth check in the last hour. “His body’s fine,” she waves to all the other apparatuses connected to him, the gesture a little more loose and untamed than Wanda’s ever seen from Helen, “I have no idea what’s wrong.”

The admission hangs between them, a confession that will never leave this room, their joint vulnerability something that will, hopefully one day, be nothing more than a fuzzy memory, one so unremarkable it is hard to decipher if it was actually real or just a dream. “I-” Wanda is about to say everything will likely be fine, but lying to herself is pointless, and lying to Helen seems almost offensive, “I don’t know either.”

“I think,” the words trail out in elongated syllables that accentuate her unease about the entire situation, “I’m going to call Tony.”

Wanda’s eyes connect with the doctor’s, a tiny dip of her chin letting the woman know she heard her and agrees with the action. And then, with the swish of the doors marking Helen’s exit, Wanda finds herself alone with Vision for the first time.

Natasha has spent years teaching each of them to assess their surroundings, take note of all exits and entrances, identify the cameras both blatantly out in the open, as well as any odd decorations that might house hidden devices. The checklist for such actions runs through Wanda’s mind, aided immensely by the fact she actually knows the layout of the medical bay well, thanks to a weekend retreat in which they were each responsible for breaking into and out of the compound, the medical bay’s duct work helped Wanda win the mission. Each camera and recording device is silenced with a flick of her index finger, something that probably isn’t necessary, but she has been conditioned, again by Natasha, to remove any chance of trace evidence in case things go poorly.

Her hands part, fingers aching at the sudden loss of support, and Wanda braces her palms on the plastic armrests of the chair, shoving her body up just enough to uncurl her legs and place her feet firmly on the ground. With some effort, muscles sore from remaining in the same position for an extended period of time, Wanda stands, a bit wobbly, but she soon shakes out the needles piercing her calves and approaches the bed. “Vizh?” She hasn’t attempted his name since they arrived back at the compound, her lips tired from frantically repeating it on the quinjet, a learned helplessness that no amount of using the single syllable nickname as a mantra would bring him back. But, she figures, it can’t hurt to try one more time. Unsurprisingly nothing happens, his chest continues to rise and fall in even intervals, his eyes are shut and his lips are parted just enough to allow air to be sucked in and then dispelled. She imagines this is what he’d look like if he slept, but since he tends to prefer reading in bed and hovering around the compound instead, it is eerie to see him in such a state.

Wanda allows her right palm to drop to his chest, fingertips splayed along the vibranium clasp of his cape. One more glance around the lab, along with her powers reaching into the hallways and the next room over to determine if someone is coming to offer comfort, confirms they are alone. A deep, quivering inhale leads to one last attempt at rousing him, the “Vision” breaking in the middle as she stares at his unmoving face. When he remains unconscious, Wanda closes her eyes, centering the frenetic clamoring of her powers into a concentrated, opaque orb of scarlet that hovers in the air over Vision. This is risky, a mostly unpracticed and extremely intuitive solution that she has no evidence of its utility, but something deep within her, much like on the desolate asteroid where she defeated Thanos, screams out that this might work. One last breath and Wanda guides the orb over the Mindstone, scrunches her eyes shut at the sheer weight of the power, and then carefully, gently, with caring, surgical precision she drops the orb into his forehead, laying her own palm against his skin to make sure it stays in place.

Time continues unhindered, its passing marked by the echo of the second hand on the clock, and still nothing happens. Wanda removes her hand from his head, thoughts racing as to what she can try next and then, right around the three hundredth click of the clock, she can feel a shift in their link, a liveliness in his mind, something he would tell her is the vigorous synaptic firing of his neurons, and her lips respond, curving up. Wanda steps back, hands tapping against her thighs in excitement as she waits to see what else comes of this, eager to feel his arms wrapped around her and savor the lilt of his accent as he tells her he loves her, which will be reciprocated, and then she can inform him how idiotic his actions were and how he had promised not to let this happen again.

Her fantasy is disrupted by a polite cough that draws her gaze to the swirling cerulean of his own, and her heart sings. “Where am I?”

Disorientation is to be expected, Sam, the last time he received a concussion, went almost ten minutes thinking he was back in high school, which is how they learned of his burning crush for Raquel Smith. Wanda grabs the chair and slides it over, reaching out to brush her finger along Vision’s hand, but stops when he stares in confused abhorrence at the way she’s touching him. “Vizh,” she removes her hand, crossing her arms to trap the despair rising from her stomach, “you’re at the compound.”

“Whose compound?”

“The Avengers’.”

The man on the bed narrows his eyes, lips pursed as he weighs her response. His unrecognizable gaze creates a burgeoning realization in her mind, one that shoves her foolish hope into the pool of denial in the pit of her stomach where it dissolves instantly at his next words. “I’ve never heard of the Avengers before.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!
> 
> The next chapter will hopefully be up in 2 weeks. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!


	2. An Issue of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Vision is awake, Wanda and the team have to assess what he remembers and what they are going to do about Q*bert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

“What do you remember?”

The bright lights of the sterile room cause an involuntary squint of his eyes, a movement that seems to connect directly to the drop of the woman’s mouth and the sigh from the man with the facial hair standing in front of him. The question, however, is impossible to answer due to an inherent ambiguity in the semantics, as have all of the questions they have asked so far. “I believe specificity of the question would be more conducive to a satisfying and relevant answer.”

Now the man frowns, hands thrown up in a loosely controlled but clearly emotional manner and the woman rolls her eyes, arms crossing in time with the revolution. The moment this display ends, she meets Vision’s (or so they have labeled him so far) gaze, remaining silent for approximately 3.57 seconds and then breathes out slowly, recollecting the air before speaking. “Do you remember who I am?”

Vision considers the question. If he (the pronoun they also assigned him which he assumes is correct) takes the question at face value the answer is no, this woman and man are strangers, far too small to be concerned with in the expansive breadth of existence, mere specks within smaller dots in the far, shadowy corners of recollection. But that is going too abstract for their inquiry. So he considers how best to answer. One of the first abilities he learned upon waking was access to a stream of knowledge outside his own, which he uses as he briefly conducts a search on the process of memory acquisition and retrieval in humans, a topic that has been contemplated and studied, ideas coalescing and diverging in small, but meaningful ways with some agreement over the general process of the action (from stimuli to encoding, encoding to storage, storage to rehearsal, roughly, though the vocabulary differs from researcher to researcher). But none of this contributes to a useful answer and so he switches his tactic of approaching the question. Vision places this woman’s face in a search on the internet and over five thousand hits are recovered based on her features. A quick scan through the headlines and the articles, the team photos and the gossip columns provides him the adequate amount of information needed to respond. “You are Wanda Maximoff, of the Avengers, born in Sokovia, sometimes referred to as the Scarlet Witch.”

The supposition is that this correct response will satisfy the woman, whether he knows her identity based on memory or access to information should not matter, since it seems she only wants him to know who she is. Yet her breath catches, another shudder travels through her body as she turns away, shoulders rising and falling in tandem with her hands wiping away yet more tears. It is odd for such a response to occur based on correct information. What is far more quizzical is the fact his hand lifts slightly from his thigh, muscles aching at the sight, body seeming to want to reach out yet his mind cannot comprehend why and so he places his fingers back down and determines to examine the response later. “And me?”

Vision shifts his attention from the woman’s back, irises rotating as he processes the man’s face and follows the same procedure as before, only this time there are over a million pieces of information he can access. “Tony Stark, Stark Industries,” an interesting article races through his mind, an image of a strawberry blonde woman and the Stark logo, “though not in charge of the company,”

“Wasn’t too great at it.”

The interjection is unneeded, the implication quite clear in what Vision shared, thus he keeps providing information to answer the question instead of acknowledging the man. “You are unapologetically open about being Iron Man and have been battling alcoholism for years.”

A click of Tony’s tongue is the only response for some time, face serious as they stare at each other. “Internet’s a wonderful thing, ain’t it?”

“It is quite useful.”

“So you don’t remember us?”

Vision remains still as his mind parses out each syllable, attempting to identify why his answers are inadequate. Another question is presented before he can respond, only this time it comes from Wanda, “What were you reluctant to wear in French Polynesia?”

His eyes meet Wanda’s once more as a prickle of confusion forms in his mind, several searches for French Polynesia and Wanda Maximoff provide a foundation to understand rumors of a recent vacation, yet there is nothing available that would answer her question. So he moves into what is traditional of the culture, assuming the response must be connected to the location itself. “A ta'ovala, one of the traditional ceremonial pieces worn by men and women.”

“It’s not him.” The words are almost hollow, a detachedness in the way she presents the information to Tony.

Her companion shrugs, adding a slow nod of confirmation. “Definitely fondled the cube then.” The mention of the cube sparks an image in his mind, a sense of intrigue and a recollection of encountering the hungry reach of it before. The memory fades as the incessant chatter of the goateed man continues, “might be time to re-examine your relationship satisfaction if he keeps running back to cubes.”

“You’re so disgusting.”

“Yep.” The salacious, and presumably offensive, comment is placed into his memory, a puzzling suggestion of a bond between himself and this woman warranting further research. “Alright,” Tony slaps his hands together on the word, “I’m going to call in some people and see how the search is going.”

Once Tony has exited the room, Wanda turns back towards the bed, eyes critical and body rigid as she studies him. “Do you remember anything about us?” Her voice cracks on the last word, all the confidence and feigned strength crumbling at the flaw in the flow of her sentence.

Vision finds his knuckles bending in response but nothing more beyond perhaps a mild curiosity why his body and mind seem to be disjointed concerning this woman. It is possible, he realizes, this is what she wishes to know, the way she formed the word _us_ conveying a small plurality of people rather than a general us . “My body,” he lifts his hand to show her his fingers and watches as her eyes lock on to his movement, “seems to retain some knowledge of you,” a fluttering smile replaces her scowl, a tightening in his chest follows but is quickly dismissed, “otherwise there is nothing.”

“What,” her eyes shift, anxiety billowing out from her, increasing the mass of each molecule in the room to create an oppressively dense atmosphere, “do you mean by nothing?”

The question is warranted and seems to insist upon a certain level of detail, so Vision drops his gaze from where it was locked with her own and stares at his hands, notes the texture of his skin and the way it contrasts against the teal of the bodysuit and the band of shiny metal wrapping around one of his fingers.  Then he glances back to the woman, analyzes the immediate neuronic and the subsequent neurological and psychological responses within himself. “Whomever you are, my body seems to respond to you, yet there is no emotional correlate nor conscious recognition.” His head cocks to the side at the increasing tears forming in her eyes and the tense, shallow breaths wheezing from between her slightly parted lips. “I would conclude my bodily response is a relic from prior experience that will likely fade with time.”

A whispered “Excuse me,” barely escapes from her mouth before she rushes from the room, leaving Vision alone.

Slowly he stands from the bed, tests the feel of his limbs and the impact of gravity on his muscles, taking a few tentative steps to gauge the best way to function in this body. Then he journeys the room, fingers running along the equipment, a quick search delineating the names and uses of the machines as he works his way through the space. Eventually he finds himself at one of the metal tables, the top clear of clutter and gleaming from the care of the female doctor who operates the space. Vision bends forward to study his face, touches the yellow stone on his forehead and nods, this is not the worst appearance, though, his eyes slowly trail to the geometric patterns of the fabric, it could use some upgrades. Intuitively he knows to shrug his shoulders to send away the undesirable outfit. What is left is captivating in both its complexity and otherworldliness as compared to the other inhabitants of this compound, a sense of grandiose and impenetrable differentness that feels natural, comfortable even.

“Um, Vision?”

He rotates his body, noting the ease with which the movement can be completed with a slightly lighter density, and stares at the bearded face of a tall, muscular man dressed in plain khakis and a t-shirt. It takes 3 milliseconds to find the man’s name online, “Steve.”

Steve’s eyes seem torn between the ceiling and maintaining eye contact, an exhale coming from the man’s mouth with just enough force to potentially be categorized as either a sigh or huff. “Could you put on some clothes?”

“But it is superfluous.”

A stern shake stirs the tips man’s hair, “Clothes are required in public spaces in the compound.”

This seems unnecessary, the primary motives for clothing that Vision can identify revolve around protection, modesty, and vanity. Based on the molecular analysis of his body, the bodysuit he had been wearing offered no form of protection that his naked self cannot provide. He feels no need to be modest, this body far more stunning than any clothes he could conjure which also dashes the need for emphasizing his vanity with additional items. Yet it seems there is a rule for clothing, one that makes a victim of logic. “Though I do not condone this rule, I will follow it for now.”

“Um, thanks,” silence envelopes them as Vision stares at the man, waiting for further comment given Steve was the one to enter the space and begin the conversation. “So, um,” eye contact is shaky, occurring approximately every 2 seconds, which may be due to the unresolved issue of the clothing, “team’s meeting in fifteen to talk about the,” Steve uncrosses one arm long enough to vaguely wave in Vision’s direction, “mission, if you want to come.”

“Thank you.”

The man nods at him before walking to the door and then stops long enough to deliver instructions, “Just, please wear clothes.”

  
  


 

The room is half-full when Wanda arrives, the teammates with innate timeliness have already claimed their seats at the table, all except one. Her heart constricts at the absence of Vision at his normal seat, a chair he has occupied since their first team meeting in the conference room, the norm of unassigned but claimed seats one that came easily to him. He even saved her the seat next to him that first time, informed her he chose this position precisely because it was on the side of the room with the door given she seemed to have a propensity to exit as soon as events ended. The analysis was not his best show of understanding the intricacies of human behavior and social politeness, but the genuineness of the thought was enough to cement her own seat at the table. But now it’s empty and she’s undecided on if she continues the habit of sitting there, wondering if she can withstand the meeting with nothing but a wraith-like memory next to her.

“It’s just a chair, you can do it.”  The phrase could either be compassionate or sarcastic depending on the person saying it, fortunately she turns to find Sam, features already set with the empathetic smile and understanding eyes of what the team deems his therapist face. “Mind if I sit with you?”

Wanda glances at the chairs, fingers curling in at the thought of someone else sitting where Vision should be, but she sends a river of scarlet through her body in an attempt to tame the rapid beat of her heart as she reminds herself that Vision isn’t going to be using the chair yet. “I’d appreciate that.”

With a gallant, exaggerated bow, Sam pulls out the chair, the action meant to elicit a smile and it is successful, but comes with the addition of an eye roll at the drama of it all. He settles in next to her, placing his palms on the table. “Wanted to uh,” Sam’s fingers intertwine, a nervous gesture rarely on display from him, “let you know that Steve,” he nods his head surreptitiously towards their fearless leader, “told Vision to come to the meeting.”

The admission from earlier plays back for at least the hundredth time, the brief, foolish hope that took residence in her throat when he said his body remembered her and then the cruelty of his dismissiveness. It’s arguably not the healthiest strategy, but it was her intention to avoid Vision at all costs, wait until they had a plan and the cube and then she would interact with him. Her reasoning doesn’t come out in an eloquent sentence, yet she hopes the single syllable word conveys her disdain and despair at the information “Why?”

A slow, uncomfortable nod is coupled with a shrug and it’s enough to confirm allyship between them. “He figures it’s best to keep him in sight and that,” Sam shakes his head now, “if we’re talking about what we’re going to do to help him that he should at least be present.”

“But he’s not Vision.”

“I-”

The brush of cold air against her neck, hair swaying slightly with the breeze, is instantly recognizable, is usually joined by a rush of heat to her face and an antsy excitement in her limbs. This is not the response, her body instead weighed down with dread as the dulcet tone of his voice fills the air. “Pardon me,” Sam turns towards Vision and his body freezes except for his mouth and eyes which both grow at an exponential rate.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

Wanda reacts instinctively, turning towards the source of Sam’s incredulity and can’t stop the horrified and fascinated “Huh,” from tumbling out of her mouth. The thing about Vision is that even though he occasionally wears questionable sweaters (such as the one with the cockatoo that Stark gifted him one year), she would never describe his style as anything other than classic and subdued. He is a man that actively seeks to shove attention away, not necessarily embarrassed but uncomfortable with the way people react to his differentness, and it is something Wanda has gently teased him about while also supporting and encouraging his developing sense of style and acceptance of himself. But this, this might border on absurdity particularly given Vision’s continued battle against the speedo she adores so much, a war predicated on a desire for modesty in public.

Vision narrows his eyes at their response, hand traveling down to grasp his pure white cape, one that is held in place by a vibranium, diamond-shaped clasp that rests on his sternum, collecting the achromatic fabric and distributing it over the top of his chest before sending it cascading behind him. He is bare, the interplay of vibranium against his textured synthetic skin on full display, between his sternum and waist (and along his arms), a sight that usually evokes a sense of wonder in her but is currently causing her stomach to rotate counterclockwise. The color of the pants and the metal belt match the cape and clasp, finishing off his new uniform. It is only when Vision speaks that she can stop herself from gawking. “I was informed that clothing is required,” a comment that begs for more information, such as what led to the statement and who had to make it, “therefore I have been examining the meaning of certain colors and the styles most often depicted for superheroes in literature, television, and movies.” Vision drops the cape, squaring his shoulders while his chin rises just enough to take on a haughty, disengaged air. “White is perfection, purity and red is strength, so I believe this combination,” the observation demands a flourish of a hand to emphasize the point, yet he keeps his arms hanging at his sides, the costume the only thing needed to underline his reasoning, “will be quite impactful.”

“Alright,” Sam nods, the _al_ held out for so long his voice quivers slightly and then the _right_ landing with just enough confusion and finality to dismiss the conversation which, thankfully (another thought that makes her unsteady) sends Vision away, his feet hovering just above the floor as he journeys to float near the end of the table. “We’ll get him back.”

The reassurance is comforting for two deep breaths until the emptiness of the comment collapses on her chest with the enormity of the uncertainty of solving the issue. “Okay everyone,” Tony’s voice yanks her attention away from despair, his presence expected but she somehow didn’t see or hear him come in. “I’ve got Carol and Strange on conference,” he raises both hands, his index fingers pointing to the faces of their newer teammates on the screen at the front. “Let’s talk about what’s going on with…” it seems Stark hadn’t actually noticed Vision yet, his words trailing off when he locks on to the man still hovering at the side of the room. A cough precedes a sly smile and an incredulous shake of his head, “Didn’t get the memo we were going high fashion with our uniforms.” A collection of amused yet somewhat disquieted laughs trickle into the air. “Very white, Vision.” Tony turns back to the screen briefly, snorts, and immediately pivots back to look at Vision. “White Vision, Whision.”

“Tony.” The firmness of Steve’s interjection reels the meeting back into focus.

“Sorry, anyway,” a click and the images on the screen change, on the left is a selfie (complete with sunglasses and a casually thrown peace sign) Stark took with the last cube they had encountered before the current mission, and on the right is an image of Nefaria from the day before. “Cubey,” a red dot from his laser pointer lands on the selfie and then jumps to the cube on Nefaria’s chest, “Q*bert. They’re similar, based on diagnostics, but not the same.”

Rhodes leans forward, elbows coming to rest on the table as he studies the images, “How do you know that?”

A nod and another click and Stark switches the screen to a lively readout of dips and spikes of two lines. “Each line represents the,” he manifests his attempts to select a word in the wiggle of his shoulders, “consciousness of the cube? Similar but,” the image zooms in, horizontal bars appearing between the spindles of activity to show they are following different patterns, “not quite identical.”

“Do you think we can use the same solution?” This is from Natasha, her voice steady and body leaned back casually in the chair.

A shrug goes along with Tony’s response, “Probably. But it requires us to actually capture Q*bert and then Wanda,” he nods in her direction, pairing it with a smirk and a wink, the next comment clear even without reading his mind, “can get Vision’s consciousness out and slap the sense right back into him.”

“Based on my own calculations,” the voice seems to surprise everyone, a hush befalling the idle chatter that always exists in seat partners as all eyes move to Vision, “the act of retrieving the cube is dangerous and likely to cause more deaths and collateral damage than to simply dispose of it.”

Tony glances to Steve, then Natasha, then briefly and with a healthy amount of worry towards Wanda, but she has no response, frozen in place at the implication, her fingers digging into the armrests of the chair as her head spins, petrified someone is going to agree with the statement. “Well, yes, true, but,” the rapid beating of her heart is deafening, a hurdle Wanda strains to get past in order to listen to what follows, “there’s thirteen people affected by this thing, we kind of, you know, owe it to them to fix this.”

“We’re Avengers, we save people,” Scott jumps in, voice chipper, per usual, but even his joking tone cannot mask the sincerity of the comment that highlights the ridiculousness of Vision’s suggestion.

“Which is precisely why it should be paramount to reduce the potential for casualties. Twelve,” Vision draws out the number, emphasizing the one victim reduction in his thoughts, “people or the potential of affecting 8.13 million in the city if this goes awry.”

Wanda closes her eyes, leg shaking and powers ricocheting inside her as she tries not to stand up and scream, confront the logic of this shell of her husband. The only solution is to get the cube and get Vision back, reasoning with whatever is in his body now is likely impossible. A hand lands on her own, Sam’s fingers squeezing in a comforting, soothing pattern while he leans towards her to whisper a reassuring, “No one is buying it.”

“I can see both sides,” the admission causes Wanda’s eyes to fly open, drawn to the contemplative purse of Carol’s lips on the screen as she considers how to proceed. “You’re dealing with a cosmic cube,” no one has been able to identify the object until now, “I’ve seen these before, they have different properties, different abilities, but they’re all powerful.” All attention is mostly on Carol, eyes occasionally pulling away from the screen to slide to their neighbor in order to gauge their reaction, far too many also stealing glances at Wanda, causing her to grip the armrests even tighter as scarlet snakes through her fingers. “If you do something wrong, it could lead to indescribable destruction.” The weight of the information is keenly felt, Wanda’s body sinking deeper into the chair as if the gravity in the room is increasing with every syllable from Carol’s mouth. “Luckily, the one you’re dealing with, based on what Tony sent along, is still in its infancy of gathering power. If you're careful, you can contain it.”

Natasha’s tone remains expertly neutral, “And if we can’t contain it?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary to think about right now,” this is Sam, hand still gripping Wanda’s, anchoring her to a reality where it was not just artfully asked how to destroy the very thing that holds Vision hostage. “Carol just said it’s young, we should be fine. If we don’t get it this time, then we can talk other strategies.” It’s common, required almost, in planning meetings to have fights over strategies, but the octave drop in Sam’s voice and the challenge lacing each word sets up a barricade to other ideas, the rest of the room averting their eyes, waiting for someone to make a decision.

A low wheeze comes from the wheels of Steve’s chair as he pushes back from the table, standing slowly but purposefully before joining Stark at the front of the room. “I agree with Sam. Thanks, Danvers.” He nods to Stark, the tension between them never quite dissipating, despite everything they all went through with Thanos, but they are at least functioning mostly amiably. The screen morphs into a three dimensional rendering of a battle plan, signally a switch in the conversation and a temporary reprieve from the trauma of questioning the utility of getting Vision back. “Okay, Nat and I have been drawing up formations to use once we track the cube down - something Danvers, Stark, and Strange have volunteered to do.” Wanda only half listens, nodding along as names are dropped, partially encoding the information into her memory, which means later she’ll likely have flashes of recollection, knowledge that Scott and Hope are doing something together with the cube, that Natasha and Steve are on the south, Rhodes and Sam in the air, but what, precisely they are doing she’s sure she’ll figure out eventually. Instead her mind cycles between two hypotheticals -- what if the mission fails and how could she have stopped this in the first place? Logically she knows she can’t take the brunt of the blame or guilt for either option, yet her rumination continues, convincing her that somehow this all has to reside in the palm of her hand, that it will come down to (or did come down to) a tendril of scarlet. It’s when her name is brought up that she snaps back to attention, “Maximoff is going to deal with the cube once we have it.”

She missed the lead up but the conclusion is clear - she alone can access the cube, or at least, last time this was the case and she assumes it is still true. Now that the plan is set and agreed upon, there is a fire forming just beneath her skin at the intensity of a feeling, a sense of being watched. Slowly Wanda rotates her head until she meets the serious, singular stare of Vision. The foreign emptiness of the stare, the unfamiliar dullness of his usually brilliant blue eyes is enough to tamp down her rising doubts.

If anyone is going to get Vision back, it is going to be her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is a story that has elements that are influenced by the comics, I'm going to post the panels used in each chapter. Here are the ones for this chapter:
> 
> https://78.media.tumblr.com/a2b8d5100f9d8e8f966156c99c7b932f/tumblr_inline_p1ziye7M6t1uliqmg_500.jpg
> 
> Vision's costume is a combination of the below two images...but with pants instead of the speedo. In my mind the speedo look with his normal skin tone just looked too ridiculous and I wasn't sure I was willing to go there.
> 
> https://78.media.tumblr.com/d50081533b8c4935e914d164709eb948/tumblr_inline_p1zixtEiAu1uliqmg_500.jpg
> 
> https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/marveldatabase/images/a/ae/Vision_%28Earth-161%29_0002.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20100614012934
> 
>  
> 
> Be prepared for angst to be turned up a couple notches in the next chapter. 
> 
> Kudos and comments always appreciated. As always, I hope you enjoyed!


	3. The Logical Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision’s logic leads to a schism with the team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is more angst for you! Hope you enjoy.

Vision sits, his knees bent at equal angles to each other, hands placed comfortably on his thighs, and his back against the semi-pliant plastic covered padding of the seat. His eyes remain forward, technically zeroed in on the intricate locking mechanism of the quinjet door, but his attention is not on his surroundings, having already grown bored with the intense stares and whispered conversations concerning his presence on the vessel. Instead he is deep inside his mind, continuing the enlightening journey from that morning (though earlier he did so while floating, the breeze from an open window against his skin physiologically pleasant and fascinating). On the cusp of his awareness is the whisper of the Earth turning, it’s song in tune with the revolution of the other planets, of the other galaxies, the other universes, and it serves as a point of focus while Vision delves into the information he’s collected. 

The day before, Captain Marvel (or Carol or Danvers, he cannot seem to find a consistency in their use of names) provided each of them with a folder of efficiently organized and concise information. It spanned several instances of the appearance of such cubes, detailed the powers and abilities, including one cube that gained sentience and a body once it had consumed an entire planet’s worth of consciousness, yet Vision knows it is still an inadequate amount of information. When they showed him a picture of the cube, he remembered it, not from the day of the recent attack, no he has met entities like this one before, a millennia and more of existence allowing a variety of experience no one else on this ship has. Yet they refuse to listen to him, rolled eyes and deep sighs preceding their turning away anytime he attempts to inform them of the danger they are facing, the fortitude and breadth of powers inherent in these cubes perhaps too dizzying and incomprehensible to minds as simple as theirs. 

The stream of his discovery dissipates at the shaking of the ship, a small weightlessness developing in his chest at the descent of the vessel, and then almost everyone is standing, so Vision phases from the seatbelt they required him to wear, and stands as well. Steve motions for everyone to gather, an instruction Vision disregards as his auditory processing system is capable of picking up minute sounds from impressive distances. “Okay,” the man points at each person as he talks, “Sam and Rhodes are on aerial coverage and tactical support, let us know what’s coming or what needs to change in our formations.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n.” 

“Natasha, myself, and Wanda are on perimeter and damage control. We’ll come in for distraction and aid if needed.” The two women nod. “Scott and Hope.”

The man who calls himself Ant-man, despite his painfully ordinary humanness, sits up with a broad, aloof smile, “Yep?”

“You two need to be careful, we want the cube unharmed but contained,” the containment unit created by Tony, with input from Carol, rests in Hope’s palm, the unit itself already shrunken to a miniaturized size that apparently will be expanded once the cube is attained. “As soon as you have the cube-“ 

Hope finishes the statement, confirming the plan, “Get it to Wanda.”

A pause indicates a deepening in the seriousness of the plan as Steve stares at each person on the ship before he continues. ”If at any point it gets too dangerous, disengage. This goes for everyone.” This command shifts the mood in the room from excitement into a grim determination as Steve concludes, “Everyone good?”

The plan had been discussed multiple times in the past three days and also sent out to the team with a figure covered in color-coded Xs and lines. Yet there was an error in the plan that Vision has brought up numerous times and has never received an adequate answer. “I am still unclear on my utility in this endeavor, as I was mistakenly left off the diagram.”

Rhodes responds first, his, “not this again,” echoed in the nods and rolled eyes of the other occupants of the quinjet. 

“Vision,” Steve runs a hand through his beard, a tiredness in his voice that seems to indicate he is not getting enough sleep. “We’ve been over this, you’re not leaving the quinjet, you’re serving Tony’s role of technological support. Need you separate from the action.”

This information has been conveyed yet is still insufficient. “It is a well established fact that I am the most powerful and versatile fighter.” A fact that is met with scoffs and one _You wish_ from Scott, whom no one, to Vision’s knowledge, would ever label the most powerful Avenger. Vision could recite the data from the training tests and footage of missions, including the scores given to each Avenger by the two individuals in front of him, but that is not the most vital aspect of his point. “It seems unprofessional to remove the individual best suited to actually obtain the cube from the mission.”

The blond-haired man sighs, his eyes sliding to send a silent plea to the red-haired woman. The look seems to pass the baton of illogic to Natasha, who shoves a gun into a holster with more force than necessary before squaring her shoulders, feet stepping out to broaden her stance into a power pose. “Listen, we don’t need you in the field. You’ve refused to train with us,” an action Vision has already elucidated with information concerning how his body is pristine, his powers are far greater than the others, his control of his body is nigh perfect, and that only a small hitch in seamlessly phasing and shifting density existed which he could (and did) adequately solve on his own. But Natasha, and the rest of the Avengers, disregard this information. “We only bring people if we know how they work. You chose to skip training, so you can’t come.”

Vision considers her words, simultaneously retrieving the contract signed by all Avengers (including a digitized copy with what he presumes is his own signature) and scans until he reaches the clause on training. “There is no expressly written rule that states this nor was it ever verbally explained to me, thus under the law,” or so his dip into federal and local legislation on contracts reveals, “you have no standing.” 

“Some rules aren’t written.”

A statement that is true, though erroneous, “But if they are never spoken then how can anyone know it is a rule? From my understanding, only Wanda can read minds.” The use of her name causes Wanda to flinch, a reaction he has noted anytime he speaks of or to her, a nervousness and sense of a desire to flee inherent in their interactions. A curious response given how she was the one to awaken him, the feel of her powers twining around his consciousness palpable at all times if he allows his mind to slip.

Natasha smirks, not one of a amusement, he thinks, it seems predatory, similar to the narrowing of eyes and the thin line of a mouth present on animals when they are hunting. “I just said it, didn’t I?”

“Ex post facto laws prohibit retroactive enforcement of a punitive rule,” Vision shrugs, having noticed in movies and in watching his teammates that it is a gesture used to convey a meaning, usually confusion, but sometimes, particularly from Sam Wilson, it is a motion to emphasize the wrongness of the other person in the conversation, and Natasha is wholly in the wrong. “Forced seclusion and inactivity of an otherwise helpful and healthy Avenger should be deemed punitive.”

The woman’s smirk drops, eyelids drawing closer to each other for a well placed glare, yet she does not respond, instead she turns away and pats the shoulder of Steve who releases another sigh before stepping towards Vision. “Listen,” the tone is amicable and tinged with faux-empathy, “you are an asset to the team, but for this mission we need you safe and out of harm’s way,” the man sends him the same shrug Vision had already utilized in this conversation, “we’re just trying to help you.”

Vision attempts to comprehend the argument, searches his mind and the internet for a strategic or logical basis for the claim but finds nothing. “It seems you should be more concerned with the debilitative nature of emotions in your reasoning if you believe your unfounded belief that you are helping me displaces the strategic boon of my skills” 

If the prior statement was mostly hollow, the next one could maintain an echo for an eternity due to its lack of substantial density.“There’s just no reason for you to be in the field. Honestly you’re only on the quinjet in case we need to do the transfer immediately, otherwise the vote was to leave you at the compound. Just,” Steve equips the dual shields on his arms, the metal clicking in place with an air of finality, “follow orders and stay on the ship.”

Before Vision is able to rearticulate his reasoning, a new voice cuts in, “Dude.” Vision sweeps his eyes to Rhodes, whose body is already sheathed in the heavy armor but the face mask is open to allow a clear view of his unamused face, “just take a hint.” The next part of his comment is not directed at Vision, instead to Sam, though it is said with enough volume for most of the ship to be privy to the private conversation, “It’s like being back in week one of Avenger training.”

What tonally is a joke is not met with laughter, instead a cloud of scarlet bursts from the far side of the ship, an explosion of sheer, impressive power that instantly silences everyone as Wanda lifts a finger at Rhodes, “Don’t you dare imply he has ever been like this before.” The threat, whatever it means, seems salient, all chatter dropping away as Wanda exists the ship. 

Steve smacks his lips with a nod, “Let’s go.” The man points one of his shields in the direction of Vision’s chest, “Stay here, if we need help, I’ll call you in.” The rest of the team leaves, each person heading in a different direction as articulated in the strategy, and Vision finds himself alone, head cocking to the side as the door to the quinjet closes and the loud swish of the lock seals his role in their strategy. 

Without other distractions, the transmitters and conversation of the Avengers in the field bouncing around the metal ship in a semi-soothing manner, Vision contemplates the insistence of these people to help him. There is nothing wrong with him, the repetitious litany of medical tests he has undergone since waking confirm his vital signs are stable and, to quote Dr. Cho, quite impressive. Neurological tests reveal no abnormalities, cognitive tests show his functioning is far above average. Even the five hundred item personality test came back with no reports of concern. Yet they insist on the smokescreen of helping him to justify the marginalization of his existence, disregarding his arguments at meetings and forcing him to remain on the ship, all simply because he is not the same as he was before the cube. Vision would, based on what he has been told of his prior role in the team, argue he is much improved, no longer dictated or distracted by emotional entanglements.

This thought, this acknowledgment of the basis for their treatment of him, has led him to conclude that humans are quite odd, for numerous reasons, but at the present moment it is the way they value one life (or twelve, they keep arguing with him, but he is aware, as are they, they are only concerned with one) as more important than millions. It is a logical fallacy, one inherent in their flawed evolutionary reliance on emotion. The members of the Avengers seem incapable of taking their concerns for this one life and multiplying it by the total population. If the insistence is to grasp at emotional salience, why are they not crushed at the weight of the deaths of millions, billions if the cube is too destructive? Why, Vision keeps asking and they keep sidestepping, risk the whole of life to simply get one life (or twelve, it makes no difference) back? 

It is clear the members of the Avengers are incapable of rational thought, which implies they are not exemplars of heroic actions, something Vision assumed was required of superheroes. Vision may not give in to the base and reckless draw of emotions, but he still maintains the required efficacy to sift through what is good and what is bad, a hallmark of a hero. When he thinks of the cube, of the research he has done and the stray memories from aeons ago floating in and out of his consciousness, he is met most predominantly with an image of a ruined civilization, the majority of the bodies incinerated upon contact and the once prosperous city razed and desolate. Vision’s affective response ends at the crumbling buildings, the unnecessary sway of deeper emotions tossed aside to allow for more deliberative thoughts. This cube is bad and clearly he is the only one to recognize what must be done.

Vision runs his fingers over the switchboard, the buttons, levers, and knobs controlling not only the tactical cameras but also the communication system amongst the team members. The people in the field have been talking non-stop, always identifying their positions and recommending where others should move or informing each other what is occurring. Slowly Vision phases his hand into the board, solidifying his body once he feels wires, wiggling his fingers to feel the soft tapping against his skin, then he sends a pulse of psionic energy, just enough to singe the wires into obsoletion, but not enough to cause outward damage to the console. 

It will take approximately 4.15 seconds before the team realizes something is wrong, so Vision removes his hand and bursts upwards through the hull of the ship, phasing through the metal and into the air, granting him just enough of an unobstructed view to locate the man wearing the cube. In 2.50 seconds Vision is at the man, staring at his sickly eyes, mouth drooping in desperation, the cube meticulously working its way into the man’s nervous system. How odd that none of the team has mentioned saving this man’s life, one that is so clearly close to ending yet persists simply as a tool for the cube. Then Vision’s eyes lower to the iridescent object, arcs of light sparking from its surface in a semi-random pattern. “You have harmed too many.” Vision’s statement is met with an increase in the psychedelic light display, a sign he interprets as the cube’s almost solidified independent sentience. “I cannot let you continue when I have it in my power to stop further suffering.”

“Vision, step away.” A pressure builds in Vision’s mind, centered on the stone, and then scarlet wisps begin to overtake his visual field and force his density to increase, limbs sinking through the air as if someone had tied weights to him and tossed him into the ocean. It is difficult, but Vision manages to turn around, meets the red-irised glare of Wanda, her features contorted into a grotesquely angry concentration. “Get away from it.”

Vision allows her to feel powerful for a few more seconds, a bit preoccupied with the sense of awe building in his chest at how far this woman’s emotions push her to save a life that does not need saving, and then he blinks his eyes, a golden light severing her control over his body. “I am doing what is right.” He floats back into the air, body swiveling so that his back is to the woman and his eyes locked on the cube, a whole new pressure building in his mind as he charges up his powers. The tickle of Wanda’s sad attempts to contain him waver at the edge of his consciousness, but he ignores them, just as he ignores the yelling from either side and the bullets being shot at him (which he phases in and out of existence to avoid), and he simply stares at the riotous lightshow from the cube. Once his powers have pooled into a blinding, pulsing orb of gold, he releases them in a concentrated beam of light at the cube

 

 

The quinjet is silent. Solemn disappointment intermixes with rage and grief and the overwhelming sense of self-culpability in what happened, forming a black hole in the middle of the ship, one that eats all sound from the shuffling feet and the deep sighs and the barely contained sniffling of regret. Wanda hardly notices, staring intensely at her hands since she sat down, a desperation clinging to her with each inhale and exhale, a worry building that if she does not purposefully force her lungs to keep functioning and her heart to keep beating that she might just cease to exist. 

The intention was for this moment to be joyous, to feel the steadfast and comforting weight of her husband’s arm around her back and then dive into the serenity of his mind, bathing herself in his ordered, peaceful thoughts. At the worst she reasoned they’d just have to regroup and decide what to do next, determine a better solution for containment. Instead she has to squeeze her eyes shut, the white tips of his boots visible in her periphery, the image of him shackled and guarded on a bench, a very Stark-like nonchalance to the slant of his mouth as everyone around him sits shell-shocked already seared into her brain. This is not what she wants to associate with Vision, this man, no, this monster is not Vision. Her Vision is gone. Wanda barely muffles the sob that wracks her chest at the accidental slip of the truth, at the acknowledgment of her utter failure to save him, at the ease with which this imposter shrugged off her powers, at how useless she has become. She’d saved him from Thanos, how could she not save him from himself?

A hand descends on her shoulder causing her to flinch away from Natasha’s attempt at comfort, the sheer fact of Natasha providing physical and emotional support never a promising sign. Thankfully no one has said the truth out loud and Wanda refuses to dip into their minds, too mortified at the harrowing thoughts within her own to accept the inundation of their despair. They will likely speak of this mission for weeks, months, possibly years, break down the minutiae of what each of them could have done to stop it, but that will only come later, once they’ve had a chance to sleep, eat, and ruminate on the day. She doubts any of them will forget, she won’t, not with the husk of her husband still in existence. She wonders if Steve will allow him to remain with them, but that tumbles into a far more terrifying thought of what would this man do if he was not under their surveillance? 

When the quinjet lands, Wanda does not move, lost in her thoughts and in the continued conscious encouragement of her lungs to keep expanding and restricting. It is only when she can hear the movement of the three people to her right -- Vision who is flanked on either side by Rhodes and Steve -- that Wanda snaps back to the present. She stands, legs a bit wobbly and vision blurry from the conglomeration of tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, and speaks before realizing what she is saying. “I want to talk to him, alone.” 

“Wanda-” Steve’s voice drops instantly into a paternalistic wariness laced with the immense guilt he no doubt already feels for the failed mission. 

“Please.”

Steve shakes his head, arms crossing in resistance but then Rhodes drops his hand from Vision’s arm, eyes meeting her own as a relatable sadness morphs his features. "It's not the worst idea," he turns towards Steve with shrug, "Not the best either but, I mean-" his justification of her request stops and she realizes he doesn't actually agree with her, but Rhodes has been an unlikely source of support for Vision (and herself but mostly Vision), during their time as Avengers. One aspect of this support is listening to teammates and analyzing the subtextual needs of their words when they suggest otherwise idiotic actions. His voice is surprisingly quiet and uncharacteristically tentative as he tweaks her request into something Steve might honor, “Mind if we stay just outside the door? ‘Case things go south?” Another shake sends Steve’s hair flying but Wanda ignores him, instead focusing on the empathetic slope of Rhodes’ shoulders. 

“I'd appreciate that,” she considers saying that she can handle it on her own, but then flashes to her failure in stopping Vision from destroying the cube. She considers informing them that she has a right to this conversation, yet there is no reason it should be now, likely shouldn’t be given the frenetic bounce of emotions in her mind. But for some reason she needs to hear his reasons and needs them immediately. “We won’t be long, I promise.”

“Come on, Steve.” Rhodes tightens his mouth into a thin line as he places his palm against Steve’s shoulder, nudging their leader into a reluctant forward momentum. “If you have problems-”

Wanda attempts a half-smile, “I’ll let you know.”

Once the two men leave, Wanda finally meets Vision’s eyes, his irises are completely still, void of feeling or regret and his mouth rests easy despite his wrists and hands still bound in advanced Stark technology. This is further than she had actually thought through in the plan, her desire to speak with him coming to her absent what, precisely, she wished to gain from their conversation. Vision waits a few more seconds before initiating the conversation, the once soothing tones of his voice now acting as a knife stabbing her chest with each syllable. “I will not apologize.”

“Why not?” 

The way his head bends to the side is so reminiscent of Vision’s confused stare whenever Sam or Nat would use slang, that Wanda briefly hopes he might be coming back to her. Then he speaks and the facade is broken, “I did nothing wrong. It was clear the situation was not under control and so I deemed it necessary to eliminate the threat before we placed more lives at risk.”

It’s the same argument he had used before (why anyone let him attend that meeting is still beyond Wanda’s comprehension) and his reasoning continues to baffle her. “You almost killed Scott and Hope.” 

“And Count Nefaria.”

The addition of the name and the admission he fully understood the impact of his actions stokes a fire within her chest, one that transfigurea her hopelessness into fury. “You say that so calmly, that you almost killed three people.”

Vision’s eyes narrow, fingers flexing as his wrists slide in and out of the cuffs. “If I had killed three people, it would still have been beneficial to have lost their lives than to bring about the potential destruction of the entire city and its inhabitants. It is simply a matter of numbers.”

Statistics as a source of proof during arguments isn’t new, it has always been infuriating to fight Vision, a man who puts so much faith in data, yet this is beyond even his most asinine use of quantitative ammunition. “We are talking about people, real people, you can’t just reduce it to numbers.”

“And yet you, and the rest of the Avengers, seem incapable of recognizing that each one of those numbers is an individual person.” He pauses to allow his observation to sink in and then proceeds with a new example. “If I were to inform you that Sokovia has a population of 4.71 million, would you disparage that number and insist only one of those is a person worthy of saving?”

Logically she understands his point, can even picture the ships hovering around Sokovia during the battle with Ultron, how they, the Avengers, insisted on staying in Novi Grad until every last person was saved. This makes sense, his argument, every life should be worth the same, but she also remembers some nights thinking what life would have been if she and Pietro had simply run, had prioritized his life over Sokovia, over the world. It still fills her with guilt, the thought of dropping Sokovia in exchange for Pietro and truthfully, had they done that, she would never have met Vision, never been an Avenger, and that is something she does not wish to be rid of. Yet there is a flaw in denying emotion in a decision, of only thinking about the whole and never the part. This causes her to shift away from Sokovia, away from an example that supports his argument, and broaden the impact of her actions to an even larger number of living beings. Immediately she considers the last time Vision’s life was worth more to her than anyone else’s. What came of that selfishness was not destruction or extinction but victory. Wanda steps closer to the man on the ship, can feel desperation gripping her limbs at the notion of getting her husband back, to stare into the swirling vortices of his soul once more and know that he is safe. She lifts her hand and places it on Vision’s cheek, the familiar ridges of his textured skin a sharp contrast to the foreign impassivity of his face. Her voice drops to a whisper, “I once saved the entire galaxy because I refused to let you die.” 

Vision stares at her, the hinge of his jaw moving against her palm as he responds, “The end does not always justify the means, to utilize such thinking is inherently dangerous.”

“Vision,” she says his name not to acknowledge this man, but as a last, reckless attempt to conjure something of who he was before, to coax him from wherever the cosmic cube hid him. Along with his name she sends him memories, attaching a tenuous tendril of scarlet to his mind, transmitting tiny moments, like baking in the kitchen, her hand brushing a smudge of flour from his cheek and then his lips helping to remove a bit of chocolate clinging to the corner of her mouth. There’s the night they stayed up playing a cooperative video game that Sam had forced them to play earlier in the day, one Vision stated would have been easier with just Wanda, and it was, they beat it all in one night. Then she moves on to more momentous times, their first kiss (and the gorgeous way the light had filtered through the sheet to highlight the rapid, joyful turn of the gears in his eyes and the shy smile on his face), their first _I love you_ s, the first time they spoke of a joint future together, the first time she held his hand, touched his face. Lastly she sends him a recent memory, standing beneath a tree, the branches bent at odd angles and the leaves glimmering like stars under the setting sun, surrounded by their teammates, everyone in their battle-worn uniforms, skin rapidly discoloring under fresh wounds, but their faces were exuberant. She makes him hear his own words, the vows he made to her under an alien sky, ones they weren’t sure would apply beyond the mission, the threat of Thanos growing each day, and then the impassioned kiss brimming with hope and love and despair and uncertainty, that finalized the intertwining of their souls. “Please remember.”

Vision is silent for a time, mind still and breath even, and then he cups her hand with his own, a tenderness that invigorates her heart, sends scarlet skipping through her limbs. “Those are beautiful memories.” Slowly he pries her hand from his face, the action causing a slight tear at the top of her soul. “But they are not mine.”

“Vizh…” she chokes on his name and stumbles backwards at the coldness in his once loving eyes. 

Effortlessly he phases his hands out of the handcuffs, the thud of the metal against the floor resounding off the walls. Vision raises his left hand, the fluorescent lights bending off of his vibranium wedding ring in a hypnotizing pattern. “When you awakened me, you believed you would find that Vision, but I am not the same man from your memories.” She can hear the high-pitched ripping of her sanity, of her resolve to not be defeated as she watches him inch the ring along his finger. “I am not the man you love, nor the man you married.” The ring is held out between them, his eyes steady and serious as he waits for her to take it. Haltingly she wraps the ring in a cloud of scarlet, draws it to her chest where she clutches it with both hands. “I am not your husband and you are not my wife. It is best for you to accept this fact.” The words fall on her, the weight unbearable as her legs give out and she falls to her knees, silent sobs sending tremors through her body at the realization he is truly gone, that this man destroyed not only the cube but Vision as well. Wanda scoots backwards as this fake Vision bends down to study her face. “Why are you upset? I have only told you the truth.”

“You,” she spits out the word, heaving in air as she tries to say the rest, the spasming of her lungs creating a trembling staccato in her response, “used to be kind.”

Vision watches her, his mouth slanting down as he contemplates the accusation, and then he stands, head held high and his body rigid as if what he is saying is so commonplace even a child should not need to be told it. “Is the truth not kind?” He leaves without waiting to hear any potential retort, his cape brushing her face as he walks past and it stings, the betrayal of his actions settling beneath her skin, an irritant not unlike the unfortunate time she and Pietro stumbled through a collection of nettles when they were kids. But there is no treatment for this, no salve for her pain. 

As the silence of loneliness descends around her, Wanda lays on the metal grating of the floor, curling her body into a ball centered around the coldness of the vibranium ring in her palm. The implications of the day finally take hold, the roots twisting and strangling her as she allows herself to fall into the oblivion of grief. Vision is gone and this time she has no idea how to get him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comic panel inspiration: From Tom King's Vision issue #7 http://abload.de/img/5iauq4.jpg
> 
> Sorry for all the angst lately. Two more chapters of heavy angst and then there will be a mix of fluff and angst. 
> 
> Kudos and comments always appreciated. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Infinite Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an act of desperation, Dr. Strange attempts to reason with Wanda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost out of angst....almost. I tried to throw in some very slight fluff here. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Wanda sits on the lab table, eyes closed, legs crossed, and her hands resting on her knees, palms up and fingers steepled together. Scarlet billows around her, a nebulae of raw power that contains thin tendrils weaving in intricate patterns around a hexagonal, pinkish object. It is the only fragment they could recover from Q*bert, the last potential link she has to Vision, and Wanda will be damned if she doesn’t find some way to reach through it. Experimentally she prods at the shard, channelling sparks of power into it with each tentative touch, attempting to elicit some sort of response. Nothing transmits, however, not even a faint pulse of residual life, only silence and an eerie, discomfiting absence of fury and light.

She squeezes her eyes tighter, fighting back the tears that have been continually at the edge of her vision since her confrontation with the imposter. A steadying inhale and a mostly even exhale recenter her, her mind shifting to an awareness of her own body, tracking the rhythm of her pulse, the feel of the frigid metal biting into the exposed skin between the hem of her dress and the top of her stockings, and the gentle tapping against her sternum of the vibranium wedding ring that now hangs around her neck. It’s a technique Strange encouraged as a way to ground her to reality whilst her mind reaches beyond the scope of human awareness. Another breath and she pushes her powers deeper into the shard, seeking any remnant of existence, even a single atom that is marginally active. It’s all she needs, she thinks.

When there is still nothing, Wanda tips her head back in defeat, extinguishing the scarlet cloud with a tightening of her fingers and a slow, defeated exhale. “This isn’t working.” Nothing is working, actually. No one has found a solution yet, as far as she is aware, though Wanda hasn’t been particularly social to know exactly what the team is doing to find Vision. She knows she should seek their support, lean on their combined strength but the limited contact she has allowed is exhausting, the guilt in their eyes and the baseless reassurances that everything will turn out okay stoking a gradually building rage deep in her chest. Which is why she’s in Helen’s lab, unable to stand being in her own quarters surrounded by the memories and the smells of Vision, and also unwilling to go elsewhere, the absence of his presence haunting her every move.

Even though Vision spent much of his time helping Helen in the laboratory wing, Wanda, much like the rest of the non-science based members of the team, avoided it, overwhelmed by the equipment and the jargon. What this means is that she has almost no memories of Vision here, no chance of losing her veneer of control like she did while trying to cut an onion earlier in the day (Vision, for years, has served as her sous chef for such actions since his synthetic eyes seem insusceptible to the noxious task ). It also helps that Helen, much like Vision (Wanda’s Vision, the real Vision, not whatever is residing in his place) disregards the normative apologies and reassurances, including leaving Wanda alone when she wants to be.

The only issue with frequent solitude is the tendency to ruminate, Wanda’s mind sliding easily into reliving each moment of that day, considering how she should have stopped the destruction of the cube, should have held tighter to the Mindstone or even thrown Nefaria out of the way. Perhaps she could have fought harder to keep Vision at the compound instead of holding onto the foolish hope of a successful mission and a quick transfer of Vision’s consciousness from the cube. Sometimes she even pushes her blame to the initial event, chastising herself for not helping Vision with Nefaria or for even agreeing with the team that Vision should engage the cube.  Hindsight, as always, is merciless and unforgiving. Now she is left with nothing but a lifeless shard, a husband that is not actually her husband, and no prospects beyond going back in time to stop either event, a proposition Strange has already vehemently turned down.

A shiver of despair rolls along her spine, carrying her muscles along with it into a subdued shudder and an uncontainable sob at the memory of the last time she was faced with such bleak options - standing on a half-destroyed battlefield, powers sparking haphazardly from her hands as she stared at the mad titan in front of her. There were no pathways that didn’t include destroying herself, the ground she stood on, her teammates, or the universe and for the first time in her life she didn’t feel the weight of responsibilities or guilt, only the freedom of accepting oblivion. That feeling builds at the memory, prickling at her fingertips as she stares at the lifeless shard on the table. Perhaps there is one more option.

Slowly Wanda lifts her wrists, arms separating as she pulls her hands farther apart. She closes her eyes, releases all thoughts unrelated to the task at hand and reverts her mind back to the battle, allowing her desperation and love to drive her. With a soothing dance-like movement, she pushes rods of scarlet into the ebony sea of spacetime in an attempt to parse out the invisible boundary of reality. Eventually she meets resistance, a devilish smirk drawing her lips up as her fingers mimic the prodding of her powers. It feels different this time, not as dense and fortified, almost like touching the skin of an onion, matter crinkling and crackling as she pokes at the seams. She’s uncertain what she’s looking for, still a novice at this task despite her pleading with Strange to show her how to harness this immense power.

Wanda pushes her palms gingerly into the air, an invisible crocodilian texture tickling her skin as she moves her way along the boundary of the universe, and then she stops, a pressure forming against her hands as if something is pushing back. A deep breath in collects her powers into a concentrated mass, an apple-sized orb rotating three feet in front of her, and then she swings her arms, bringing her hands back together, thumbs hooking to steady her trembling wrists as she sends the orb into the fabric of reality. An infinitesimal crack forms, a golden glow pouring into the darkness from the tear, and it is familiar and comforting like nimble fingers dancing through her hair on a sunny day.

“Wanda!”

Wanda startles, lungs spasming as her eyes snap open. Hanging in front of her is a partially reconstructed cube, one that begins deteriorating the longer she looks at it. Frantically she closes her eyes, shoving her powers in furious whips at the disappearing object but nothing remains, the space between her and reality rapidly forming a chasm she has no way of crossing.

A second, “Wanda,”  causes her to flinch, this one not as desperate or pleading, fueled by anger and harmonized by the distinctive whistle of a whirling portal.

Her attention moves towards the new body in the room, Dr. Strange’s clothing always making him seem so out of place in high tech settings, regardless of the fact she knows he has a deep understanding of everything that happens in this room. Hesitantly she slides from the table, silently whispering to her lungs and heart to please slow down, regain some control so she can respond without inducing suspicion as to her activities. “Stephen, I wasn’t expecting you.”

The transparency of her cover is apparent in the quirked eyebrow and haughty sigh that he purposefully draws out for added emphasis. “I have been very clear in establishing rules for interacting with reality.”

“I was only looking,” the words are clearly a lie, her own voice unconvincing and the disappointed shake of his head confirming her failure at being nonchalant. So she switches her strategy to the truth. “I heard him,” Wanda sucks in a trembling breath at verbally admitting it, at solidifying the knowledge of hearing the unique and lovely way Vision’s accent rounds the syllables of her name, “I felt him.” The ghostly pressure forms on her palms at the memory.

Stephen’s face is blank, the gray flecking his hair adding to the air of unimpressed authority he carries around pretty much anyone, one that sometimes gives way to irreverent humor, but the sternness in the set of his mouth means that is unlikely to happen right now. “You can’t do this.”

The words Wanda had been preparing to use, ones explaining exactly how she is sure it was Vision tumble away, replaced by a creeping, oppressive shroud of suspicion around her shoulders. “Why aren't you surprised?”

Strange is not one to participate in tautological avoidance, erring on the side of speaking his mind almost all the time, yet the hesitation of his mouth and the quick glance away from her gaze concerns her. But he remains true to form with his eventual admission. “I discovered him two days ago.”

“What?” Her hands are ablaze with scarlet before the word is done, feet stepping out wide as she falls into the battle stance Natasha worked for months to ingrain into her muscle memory.

The caped man doesn’t respond in kind, a disinterested sniff at her threat a strong enough shield against her ire. “I have spent every second of my time trying to find a way to bring him back,” apologetic sorrow flashes across his face, “He’s unreachable, Wanda.”

She shakes her head, defiance crawling up her arms, “I touched him.”

“And you very well could have destroyed the universe with that touch.”

Wanda considers backing down, his voice laden with a steadfast direness, whatever he has seen appears to have shaken him. “It worked before, against Thanos.”

There is no immediate response to her rebuttal, instead Strange turns away from her, one arm reaching out, his index and middle finger held together by his sling ring, and his other hand rotating in a wide circle as he creates a new portal. Once it is formed he turns towards her, “If you won’t believe me, perhaps you will believe yourself.”  A dip of his head indicates she should follow, a command she considers refusing, but intrigue at his offer begins to replace her anger, encouraging her feet to shuffle towards the portal.

As she steps through the golden portal, Wanda squints at the fluorescent lights overhead, blinking several times to slough away the floating dots from the bright assault. “Step back please,” the disorientation of portal traveling means she follows his order without thinking, her body meeting a slight resistance as she transitions into the same room only now there are faceted panels distorting the view. “We’re in the mirror realm.”

“Yeah. I figured.”* Now that her eyes have adjusted, Wanda scans the room, a sense of deja vu forming at the quiet, pristine lab, the only things marring the perfection of Helen’s organization are a mug of tea (a slight ring forming on the table underneath the ceramic cup), the small remnant of Q*bert, and Wanda sitting on a table, legs crossed and hands on her knees as scarlet billows around her. “Where are we?”

Strange joins her in scrutinizing the other Wanda, following along as she gives into despair and desperation, palms reaching out in search of Vision. “The multiverse.” It’s a word the team, primarily the science driven members, throw around, often while drunk and shooting the shit, but Vision has excitedly discussed it with her as well, the notion of an infinite number of universes where every possible outcome can play out a thrilling form of hypothetical contemplation to him. “I’ve been observing your various lives in search of answers.” Hope should attach itself to this information, yet his voice is low, almost terrified.

“What have you found?” His response is a shaky wave of his hand towards the other Wanda, her fingers wagging furiously as she pulls at the threads of reality, doing what Wanda failed to earlier, this Wanda’s connection to Vision still active. Just as a golden light comes through into the lab, as Wanda’s own heart begins pounding excitedly in her chest, there is a blinding, retina destroying, explosion of light and then utter darkness. “What…”

“She failed.” A new portal appears and Strange leads her through, allowing Wanda to watch a new version of herself again. “She fails over,” a new portal and an even brighter explosion, “and over,” attempt after attempt fly past until Strange remains long enough in one universe so Wanda can see the entirety of time implode as they stand in the safety of their spectator realm, “and over.”

“Why doesn’t it work?”

Stephen shifts into the casual, arrogant pose usually taken up by people tasked with explaining supposedly simple matters to someone who seems to not get it.  His arms are pulled behind his body so that he can grip his hands behind his back and his hip juts out just enough to be condescending. “When you altered reality to defeat Thanos, you also weakened the stability of reality itself. Cracks formed, universes collided, and in amongst this damage pocket dimensions began to proliferate at the most chaotic and unstable points.” He shifts his hips, the cloak readjusting on his body until it is comfortable. “With the increased instability, there was also, from what I’ve gathered, an increase in using these rifts for personal gain, manipulating and utilizing the raw power seeping from these dimensions.”

“The cube?” The man nods, waiting for her to form the connection he’s been hinting at. “Vision is in one of these pocket dimensions.” Another nod and Wanda’s heart rejoices at the knowledge, wholly disregarding the apocalyptic realities they just observed. .

Strange’s hands release, arms falling back to his side, “Wanda,” the threat in his gaze and the admonishment in his tone chills her joy, his words shattering it into millions of pieces, “it is too dangerous to rescue him, even for me.”

A stray memory waltzes through her mind, a moment from a conversation with Vision concerning these other universes, a tearful, hopeful inquiry as to whether it meant there was a Wanda still with a Pietro at her side. “But some Wanda’s succeed. They have to.”

His “Yes,” is reluctant, fingers tightening into fists that suggest he hoped she wouldn’t understand the full breadth of the multiverse. “But it still never works.”

Wanda chooses to ignore everything after the _yes_ , focusing instead on the possibilities.  “How do they do it?”

The leather of his gloves squeak as the pressure of his curled fingers increases, the sound creating a slight crack in his calm demeanor. “Usually through using a relic to amplify her powers, but that is only in the small sampling of universes where it works.” Her eyes drift to the Eye of Agamotto, his own gaze following her silent question. “No, I won’t let you.”

“Why not?”

“Wanda,” the sincerity in his voice is concerning, pebbles of dread piling up in her body, starting at her feet, and holding her to the ground. “I have been through every single universe, even when you do succeed at saving him, your relationship always ends in tragedy.” Her lungs begin to fail, breath sputtering as her mind wages a war against his words, denying the notion because there is no reason her and Vision will not be happy so long as they are together.  “It is not worth risking the entirety of reality for a brief time of happiness.”

The argument is the same as what the non-Vision used on the quinjet, the many should outweigh the few, it is futile and selfish for her to save Vision, but Wanda can’t accept this without proof, hearsay a dangerous and unreliable source of decision making. “Show me.”

Strange shrugs, opening a new portal and stepping halfway through it before he turns back towards her, “Tell me once you’ve seen enough.” It is both a warning and an apology, a downpour of frigid terror seizing her muscles as she steps hesitantly through the portal. “These first ones are the most,” he pauses while staring at the back of Vision, body hunched over a desk, and a different Wanda standing in the doorway, watching her husband with concerned eyes, “normal dissolutions.”  Normal is a term that is barred from her relationship, a subjective perception that is typically hurled at them as an insult, yet she believes she gathers his meaning, biting back tears as she watches Vision ignore her pleas to talk with her, as she gives up, likely because this isn’t the first time he’s closed himself off, and it appears this Wanda is done. Strange grips Wanda’s hand as he walks her to a slightly different universe, this time she and Vision actually talk, voices deadly calm despite the anger vibrating in the air between them.  They argue about irreparable harm to their relationship, of how Vision never quite felt right after coming back, of how she is a constant reminder of this difference, of how they don’t fit anymore. It’s this Wanda that makes the suggestion to split, and it takes everything in Wanda not to break through the mirror dimension and yell at these two idiots, force them to find a way to work it out. The next eight are almost identical, only minimal changes to the words used, the exact reasons for parting ways, and the volume of their voices.

It’s as they walk through the next portal that Wanda hears a difference, a surprising lullaby floating in the air wrapped up in the smooth tones of Vison’s voice. Stephen is about to pull her through another portal but Wanda places a hand on his arm to stop him, her body turning towards the world Strange deemed unimportant . She watches as Vision sways in the middle of a darkened room, faint outlines forming around him the more her eyes adjust to the low lighting, and Wanda begins to make out what appears to be a crib, a dresser, and a changing table. A sharp, high pitched cry solidifies her perceptions as she watches Vision run a soothing hand down the face of the baby in his arms. “We…” her and Vision had only recently tiptoed into discussions of the future, the flurry of excited ideas of buying a house and raising children decimated by three conclusive tests in Helen’s lab of Vision’s inability to procreate, and yet clearly some version of themselves figured it out, “had children?”

Strange’s arm tenses under her grip, “Wanda, we shouldn’t stay here.”

This universe’s Wanda comes in seconds later, another baby in her arms and Wanda finds her mouth lifting into a painfully ecstatic grin, not just one baby, twins. “I want to see this.”

“Wanda,” a tug of his arm rotates her face towards him where she can take in the hunted, petrified sheen of his eyes and it momentarily stops her heart, “these universes are the most horrific.”

She ignores the warning, tossing a glare at him before turning back to watch the bedtime routine.

Once the babies are asleep, laid gently in the crib with a cloud of scarlet, Wanda and Vision leave the room. His hand still on the doorknob, this universe’s Vision quietly, in a placating tone, broaches a topic of conversation that has clearly come up before, “Wanda, I am still concerned about what Agatha told us.”

The unamused frown residing on her face is one Wanda has sent to Vision numerous times, it is meant to silence the ridiculous logical reasoning he is attempting to use, particularly on things they have already been discussed and left behind. “Our children are fine, Vizh.” The sharp emphasis of the _zh_ is also a common tactic to silence unwanted dissent, one Vision rarely ever actually entertains, and this instance is no different.

“Wanda, our children might not be real.”

Wanda feels herself denying it right along with the one speaking to Vision, “How can they not be real, I carried them for almost nine months, I gave birth, we hold them, Vision, how can they not be real?”

The man wilts at the words, shoulders curving forward as his body shrinks, “Agatha says she has proof.”

She watches the other version of herself throw her hands into the air, a deep, annoyed sigh punctuating the anger forming in red sparks along her arms. “No she doesn’t.”

“Wanda,” Vision’s voice shakes as he proceeds, “no good can come of denying this.”

The next words cause Wanda to step closer to Strange, curl her fingers around his arm indicating she’s ready to be done with this universe, because even if it is in anger, she is horrified at her doppelganger’s response. The woman balls one hand into a fist and uses the other to point right at Vision’s chest, “And what the hell do you know about being real, you damn toaster.”

“Stephen, please,” her urgency is understood, a whirring portal opening that Wanda quickly steps through, glancing back long enough to see the mortification and betrayal settling on Vision’s face.

Unfortunately that’s not the worst universe, the next one forces her to relive the moment on the quinjet, only this time transported to a hallway, their children several years older, and Vision is completely white. His voice is even more flat and otherworldly as he informs them all they are no longer his family, that he is no longer their father. No matter how fast Wanda pushes Strange through the portals, however, the universes careen them along a trajectory beyond the scope of Wanda’s own imagination, each one more appalling than the last. It feels like being trapped in a horror movie, one with a cliched scene of stepping into a funhouse room filled with mirrors. Wanda finds herself standing at just the right angle to see infinite versions of herself, yet unlike the movies, it’s not just one reflection that diverges from her behavior, but all of them, some in subtle ways —just a blink or a flexing of fingers— and others are so unlike her she has to stare hard to ascertain if it is in fact her.  

There’s the Wanda who, due to the grief of their children not being real, erases a portion of the world with a whispered “No more.” There’s the Wanda who gifts her brainwaves to Vision as a parting gift in the relationship, who then proceeds to create his own family, which, unsurprisingly, does not go well. There are several where she is with other lovers, sometimes it’s Steve, sometimes Clint, sometimes people she doesn’t recognize from her own universe, yet, at least. Vision dies in several of these universes, sometimes because of her, sometimes not, occasionally he is rebuilt, never the same though, and sometimes they leave his body in a box, as if he is no more than scraps to maybe be refurbished at a later date.  Wanda wants to deny the veracity of these universes, and yet they exist, the realness of them harrowing both in the consequences and the sheer breadth of possibilities, such as the strangest one where Vision even had a one night stand (she’d laugh at the thought if she had any energy left for derision) with an alien AI that resulted in hundreds of children.

All of these worlds, these actions amalgamate around her and she can’t breath, overwhelmed by the unmistakably bleak path of their fate. Wanda can barely muster the strength to speak, but manages a quiet, supplicating, “Please stop.”

Strange pauses, hands still lifted in his signature portal conjuring stance, and stares at her. “Have you seen enough?”

The tears running down her cheeks should be informative, yet she first tasted the salt of her sorrow at least twenty universes ago, so it is not an absolute sign of being done. Wanda wipes away the stains from her cheeks, which only makes way for more tears, and nods. “I’d like to go back to my room.”  

Wanda wraps her arms around her waist, head bent down so that she only sees her her boots, the frayed ends of the laces a focal point to draw her attention away from the worlds around her. It’s only when she smells the faint lavender incense from before and hears the soft chiming of the metal strands looping along her bookshelf, that she inhales in relief and looks up. “That was,” Wanda’s thoughts move quickly, the images discombobulating as they buzz around her mind, so she keeps it brief, “Informative.”

A curt nod and a needlessly dramatic readjustment of his cloak (which could just be the cloak) goes along with the grim satisfaction of his, “I am glad it was informative, I hope you realize the correct path now.”

Wanda doesn’t watch him leave, can’t seem to muster any response, her heart bending in half, threatening to split in two, as the gravity of the various realities sink in. The process of grief had already started for her husband, a half-hearted pessimism of not saving him that was alleviated somewhat by long days in the lab with Helen, striving tirelessly to find a solution. Yet the truth was always tickling the back of her mind, urging her to consider the scope of what a destroyed cube meant. It’s impossible to hold back the barrage of sorrow now, when Wanda has not only her own grief but the grieving of infinite Wandas, each one offering a unique quality to the mourning of Vision, and it’s overwhelming, her limbs can barely move, lungs are functioning at the bare minimum capacity. The only part of her that is hyperactive are her lachrymose glands, churning out tear after tear for the finality of her loss, of all the Wandas’ losses.

With a great deal of effort, Wanda slides into the bed, scarlet whispering around her head as she cocoons herself in the duvet, blocking out the last of the lamplight that threatens to keep her in a world where she can look around and see the signs of Vision, ones that force her brain to recall his voice and his touch, the way he laughed when she hung up the painting of the monocle wearing dog on the wall (a gag gift from a team white elephant exchange, but Vision adores it far more than she thought imaginable). She breathes in and for a moment it is a mistake, to breathe, because she catches a waft of vibranium that somehow is still clinging to the pillowcase, her senses igniting so strongly that Wanda finds her eyes closing in a likely futile attempt to relive a moment with him, to summon him back to her, briefly chase away the specters of the multiverse, and pretend to have some level of hope of his return.

Her consciousness seamlessly transitions from reality to memory and for a time Wanda cannot parse out the differences, allowing herself to be consumed by recollection, of a night when she laid curled against Vision, her skin slightly slick with sweat, creating a pleasant sensation of oneness as her body adhered to him. If she moves her head just a bit, she can almost feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her, pushing her towards one heaven and then pulling her back towards another, over and over in a steady rhythm as his fingers play with the tips of her hair.

“Have I told you about the multiverse?”  His voice is clear, playful, but contemplative, his pillow talk always an unpredictable but delightful endeavor.

Wanda rubs her face into the pillow, just as she did that night into his chest, “No.”

When she doesn’t feel his hand in her hair, Wanda sends a strand of scarlet out to mimic his behavior as she recalls his response. “It is a theoretical idea that there are infinite universes where an infinite number of possible outcomes can occur.”

“So there are multiple versions of us?” The words hurt her now, back then she grinned up at him, curiosity coursing through her, feeding her desire to watch his eyes light up as he talks about theoretical things, of possibilities that are only allowable at night, Vision the type of person that relishes the security of a dark room to share his deepest or sometimes most ridiculous thoughts.

“Infinite versions.”

Wanda knows these versions now, could answer her next question without Vision’s input, but she doesn’t stop the memory. “Give me an example.”

He smiled at her, a boyish, self-conscious half-arc that always does funny things to her stomach. His other hand lifted to caress her cheek, irises spinning counterclockwise as he contemplated, then he leaned in closer. “Some may not have this moment.”

“I feel bad for them.”

This elicited a short, delighted almost-but-not-quite snort, “As do I. For those who have this moment,” his hand traced down along her face, dipping beneath her jaw as he followed her neck, “one Vision may do this,” his hand continued to run along her body, skating along her shoulder before snaking down her arm. “Another might instead opt for another action, such as,” his hand rose to her head, fingertips burying deep within her hair to massage her scalp, and Wanda can feel the phantom touch, sighs at the pressure of his sure hands. “Yet another might decide to do something else,” the cool touch of his palm was pleasant but surprising, a gasp falling unrestrained from her mouth (both then and now) as he bent down and pressed his lips to hers. “Infinite possibilities.”

“I’m lucky then,” words she doesn’t regret, refuses to regret no matter how much they hurt, “to be in this universe where you do all of them.”

Wanda freezes, dispelling the memory before he can respond and bolts upright in bed, heart racing at the amorphous implication hanging in her mind. There are infinite possibilities, theoretically, which means that there has to be a universe for every single possibility. She scurries on her hands and knees across the mattress, yanking open her desk drawer to pull out her communicator. It takes five achingly long rings for Strange’s concerned and confused face to fill the screen. “Wanda?”

“You said they all failed, right?”

“Yes…”

“Every single one of them?”

Hesitation forms on his face, his goatee exaggerating his discomfort, eyes bouncing as he attempts to identify where she is going so he can counteract it before it gets too far. Yet he fails, simply responding with what he’s already told her, “Every last one of them.”

A thread of victory attaches itself to her lips, pulling her mouth up into, based on the color leaving his face, a devious smirk. “There are infinite universes, Stephen.”

“There are…”

Wanda stands from the bed, the hand not holding the phone scrunching in renewed purpose as her sympathetic system activates, selecting her fight response (Vision jokingly has informed her he doesn’t believe she has a flight response). “If every single one of them failed, that means this universe might be the one where I succeed.”

“Wanda that is dang-” the communicator goes silent as she ends the call, turning off the device so he can’t contact her immediately. The phone drops to the bed as she stands taller, prouder, and with reinvigorated purpose, an odd gratitude overtaking her body at the notion that because all the other Wandas endured endless tragedy, it means that maybe, just maybe, she won’t have to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *aka No shit, Sherlock. 
> 
> Instead of giving you comic panels, I will allow this chapter to be a scavenger hunt of comic easter eggs. 
> 
> I don't know if you all enjoy this but below is my playlist for this story:  
> Ch. 2-4 - Tally Marks by Joseph (https://thebandjoseph.bandcamp.com/track/tally-marks). Really Joseph is my go-to for a lot of atmospheric writing.  
> Ch. 5 is going to be written to White Flag by Bishop Briggs (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syhBqULC99I) if you want a heads up on the potential shift in tone 
> 
> Depending on how Infinity War strikes my writing urges, the 5th chapter may be a bit delayed. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!


	5. Reality in her hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda decides to take reality into her own hands to get Vision back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: Wanda, go save your man!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It started as two lists, a pro and a con, on one side there are phrases such as _Wanda’s happiness_ , _will aid the team_ , _numerous future people will be saved_ , _no more worries about finding Vision floating around naked_ , while on the other side there is just one _Reality breaks and everyone dies_. It’s no longer just two lists though, Scott recommended a venn diagram that has _If everyone dies then there are no more bad guys_ as the middle ground between the two.

Wanda seethes in silence as they continue to discuss the lists, fists locked so tightly she’s not sure if she’ll be able to unfurl her fingers, but she worries if she tests out the functionality of her hands that the tempest of power trapped in her palms will destroy the room. Not only was she dragged here without warning, but she is flanked by Steve and Natasha, a prisoner in amongst a room of friends. Strange, not her favorite person now or ever, really,  is at the front of the room acting as the concerned protector of reality, and to add just a touch more salt to her wounds, the Venn diagram of doom is etched onto the whiteboard Vision bought for the team many years ago. There is, at least as she perceives it, a clear understanding in the room that Wanda does not get a say in this decision, given her own thoughts are concrete and unmovable. This means she doesn’t talk, does her best to control her eyes and lungs from betraying her annoyance.

Surprisingly there is one other in the room who has been silent. Vision, still in the ridiculous white uniform, sits ramrod straight, eyes trained on the board and hands folded gently on the table. She’s contemplated dipping into his mind, see what it is he’s considering, why he’s not adding to the list given his proclivity to point out their flawed logic, but Wanda has an inkling his silence is a function of the meeting going in his favor.

“Wanda, you’ve been extremely quiet.”

The tone is sardonic and prodding, something Stark is quite good at, but when she stares at him, a glare already on her face, she is taken aback at the empathy in his eyes. “I believe you all know my answer.”

Stark’s lips contort as he bites the inside of his mouth, eyes dropping to the ground while his hands dance. “Well I,” he brings his right palm to his chest, just over the nano arc reactor, “personally, I can’t speak for these idiots,” the usual acridity isn’t there, his mouth seeming to produce the insult based on muscle memory instead of true belief, “want to hear it.”

Everyone turns towards her, the weight of their attention fairly insubstantial in comparison to everything else of late, except for the swirling irises of Vision, his stare and the tension in his jaw almost collapsing her lungs, a challenge to whatever she says already prepared to come from his mouth. Wanda ignores him, as best she can, zeroing in on Stark’s curious and concerned face. “All the other universes,” which Strange ever so helpfully informed the team about when he called this emergency meeting, “end in failure, that means a higher probability of me succeeding in bringing Vision back in ours.”

“Simple conditional probability cannot be so easily applied to the multiverse,” hearing this instantaneous retort in Vision’s soothing accent produces a searing pain in her chest.

“Well,” Tony gives a flippant wave towards Vision and a wink to Wanda, bathing her in confusion at how she ended up in a universe where, of all the people in the room, Stark is her prime defender. “There’s no proof either way of that statement, unless you’re hiding something from us, Whision.”

Vision tilts his head to the left, a gesture that feels so alien—too stilted and towards the wrong side. “Bayesian theorem, particularly as impacted by observer selection effects, has concisely elucidated the flaws of probability in the multiverse.”

A new, quiet voice enters into the discussion, Helen requesting to attend these meetings as a source of support for Wanda and an advocate for Vision, the real one. “Those findings are not actually based on any empirical evidence, merely simulations designed by people with no direct knowledge or experience with the multiverse.” A tiny arc of pleasure lifts Helen’s lips as she continues to correct Vision’s statement, “In fact, we could be the first to conduct an actual physical examination of these ideas. So I would like to add scientific knowledge to the pros list.”  Strange frowns as he casts a spell on the marker and adds the item to the list.

A deep, conflicted inhale from Steve tempers the slight uptick of hope in Wanda’s chest, yet his actual comment fans it back to life. “So, other than reality ending and everyone dying-“

“Which is a possibility like every other week,” Scott’s foolishly proud grin almost makes Wanda smile.

Steve continues on without acknowledging the usual danger of their unique lives, “Are there any other reasons not to try this?”

A casual glance around the room reveals varying levels of confusion, apathy, and support, only Strange and Vision appearing unsettled at the tacit approval of the reality warping rescue attempt. It’s the latter of the holdouts that proffers a new argument. “Is there a reason as to why my existence is considered inferior and thus more disposable than my prior self?” The answer darts to her tongue yet she stifles it, certain that yelling _Because you’re not Vision_ will only be met with an infuriatingly unemotional counter of how they all call him Vision ergo he is Vision. It’s his next words that add enormous density to the already thick atmosphere of silence. “You are so willing to trade my life for his,” Steve flinches at the phrase, and she is uncertain if this Vision deliberately used it or if he somehow coincidentally grasped the very argument Steve used to talk down Vision when Thanos was coming. If this one notices the impact of his syntax, it’s too subtle to tell, his question continuing unhindered “Why is my existence less worthy of consideration?”

None of them can articulate a response, there’s an _Oh shit_ she thinks from Scott and a _huh_ from Rhodes or someone over in that direction.  Wanda’s own voice flees as her anger and her sorrow erupt into a guilt that is visceral and yet she views it as irrational, his argument not making sense because he is not Vision and thus he doesn’t have the same claim to her husband’s body and identity. Yet still there’s this pestering niggle of uncertainty, one that ever so gently begins to erode the conviction she had coming into the meeting. She stands,suddenly desperate to leave this room before she hears anymore, her chair tumbling backwards as she uses her powers to stop Steve and Nat from grabbing her.

Wanda briskly moves through the halls, feet becoming uncoordinated as tears obscure her perceptions. Somehow she ends up in Helen’s lab, body bent over, forehead resting against the updated cradle, her mind consumed with a mix of anguish, disgrace, and an iota of self-hatred at the way this other Vision can elicit so many tears from her. A fleeting recollection forms, tickling her palms, the novel and exhilarating touch of Vision’s first dream, the sensation on her skin sparks a more recent experience, Vision’s essence manipulating the boundary of reality in the pocket dimension, the last touch she may ever have with him if they leave him trapped and alone, lost to eternity.

“Wanda,” Helen’s calm and quiet tone is the equivalent of a hand laid gently on the back, the concern twining through each syllable rubbing soothing circles between Wanda’s shoulder blades, “I found something.”

Since the incident, the most common conversation exchanged in this lab has consisted of _Any luck? No, you? Nothing_ , so this admission and the hesitantly optimistic half smile on the woman’s face intrigues Wanda, draws her head up towards the conversation. “What did you find?”

Helen places two mugs on one of the tables before moving to her main computer station, fingers flying across the keyboard until the screen awakens. There are three overlapping images on the screen, wiggly lines with unique dips and peaks, one yellow, one red, and one a teal. Wanda considers the charts while picking up her usual lab mug and cautiously sipping her too hot tea that is a touch too sweet and lacks the pleasant bite of orange at the end. All things Vision would never allow to happen. She chokes down the thought, shrouding it in scarlet and tossing it down into the depths of her recollection, saving the immense and debilitating guilt for later. “So,” her eyes trail over the screen before moving to the kind yet worried frown residing on Helen’s face, “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

Several clicks precede the mesmerizing skitter of Helen’s fingers along the keyboard and then the three images separate, which Wanda thinks is supposed to clarify the information but she has never had much interest in this area, never really attempted to put in the time to learn all the different types of output. “The one on the left,” the woman walks over to the screen, pointing at the yellow image, “is Vision’s,” the way she says Vision, her usually neutral and detached tone developing a sweater of warmth and affection that becomes unraveled with grief by the last syllable, implies she means the real Vision, not the imposter from the meeting.  “I took this scan two years ago.”

Wanda digests the information, hands tightening around the oversized, cozy mug emblazoned with a chemistry pun she’s never understood but it made Vision chuckle quietly while he was shopping for Helen’s birthday. “Okay, it looks really similar to the middle one.”

An encouraging nod from Helen confirms this is the appropriate observation, “The middle is a scan I took after,” her voice hushes, the same way almost everyone’s does when this name has to be said, “Thanos. Vision was concerned about potential neurological changes due to the reality manipulation.”

This is relatively new information, though Wanda isn’t surprised, they each found unique ways of coping with the trauma of Thanos, it seems Vision’s was to adhere even more closely to the comfort of data. “What’s the last one?”

“That’s a composite from the six scans I’ve completed since the,” Helen hesitates, teeth lightly touching noncommittally as she seeks out the best descriptor, “incident.”

The lines at first glance look similar, but once Wanda actually focuses on it she can parse out the slightly off spacing and the higher frequency of spindles spiking out of the ground floor of the chart. “It’s different.”  

Helen walks back to the computer, speaking in rhythm to her typing, “Yes, quite different. Physiologically,” two full-body scans appear on the screen, starting apart and then slowly transitioning into one identical image, “identical but neurologically distinct.”

When he first awoke, and even the couple days after, Wanda fought against allowing herself to fully acknowledge this man wasn’t Vision, always holding out the hope that perhaps it would turn into one of those cartoons where you just hit them on the head again and they magically get better. Then he mercilessly tore her heart out, Strange walked her through the fatalistic path of their lives, and now there is absolute proof this is not, and never will be, Vision. “So who is he then?

“I’ve been meeting with Shuri,” a relationship of intellectual excitement and one that instantly was branded the Science Sisters, a nomenclature that Wanda always suspected made Vision just a mite jealous until he was unequivocally invited to discussions and it was rebranded the Scienteers. Helen waves her hand and a new image pops up next to the fake Vision’s scans and it is almost identical. “This is what Shuri grabbed while assessing the Mindstone.”

Wanda glances between the screen and Helen, confusion giving way to a dawning, almost sickening revelation. “Are you saying, “ she thinks back to the day Vision touched the cube, the spark she sent directly into the stone in a futile attempt to revive him. The intention was to awaken Vision, spark his consciousness and shock him back from wherever he went, it was foolish, she knew it was at the time, the knowledge only increasing each day, yet she never contemplated what else she may have been doing. “You are saying he is the Mindstone?”

Hesitantly Helen dips her chin, eyes concerned and marginally afraid at the barely restrained anger in Wanda’s voice, which culls in another source of guilt shackling to her wrists, pulling Wanda’s shoulders down a millimeter. “I believe so.”

The infinity stones, they all know, are extraordinarily powerful, unique in their skill sets and uses. The prevailing theory has always been that Vision’s sentience was separate from the stone because the stone lacked any sort of neurological correlates to cognition. They’d done tests, lots and lots of tests. Each one confirmed the stone was not thinking, yet now Wanda is being asked to accept the hypothesis that the Mindstone is walking and talking with ease through the compound in Vision’s body. “How can that work?”

Helen leaves the computer station, industrial blue apron crinkling as she sits on the stool closest to Wanda, a soft pat to the table commanding Wanda’s body to follow suit. “According to Thor.”

The god’s name is said with a knowingly evasive sweetness, a bloom of pink crawling along the scientist’s cheeks. “Still trying to sweet talk him with science?”

A rare yet impressively puckish eye roll accompanies the minuscule upturn of her lips in embarrassment, “He knows the stones the best, Wanda.”

“Has nice muscles too.”

“But horrible taste in coffee.” For fifteen seconds the weariness of the past week is replaced with the ease of routine, of the banter so common during happier times that Wanda instinctively turns to the right to take in the always adorable sight of Vision watching them with bemusement, a beaker in one hand and a sudsy brush in the other. But he’s not there.  “Wanda,” Helen’s mirth is replaced with a caring sternness that directs Wanda’s attention to the scarlet crackling at her knuckles. Wanda balls her hands into fists to extinguish the red, dissecting every syllable of Helen’s sentence as a way to distract herself from the empty space to her right.“Thor reiterated to me that the Mindstone does not have an actual consciousness, at least the way we think about consciousness.”

”We already knew that.”

The biology pun on Helen’s mug rises as she brings it to her lips, sipping the lukewarm coffee before continuing. “Apparently on Asgard they always spoke of the Mindstone having a universal subconscious, a,” she waves her hand to bring about clarifying words, and it’s somehow only now that Wanda understands where Vision got the habit, “tenuous connection to every living consciousness in the universe, so technically not conscious by our limited definitions, but it is a coalescence of all consciousness, which enables thought and reasoning.” She pauses before tiptoeing further into her explanation, “Perhaps more fine tuned reasoning than an individual given the number of neural connections.”

Wanda has felt the Mindstone before, never singularly, always as part of Vision, yet the sheer vastness permeating across the link was undeniable, a sense of enormity neither she nor Vision could ever explain in comprehensible ways. “Just this universe?” 

An impish, calculating smirk flirts with Helen’s face, “ Thor believes it might apply to the multiverse too.”

“Do you think-“

“Wanda.”

The conversation dies at the heaviness of Steve’s voice, both women turning to take in his crossed arms and solemn, doleful eyes. Wanda’s heart drops from the hopeful perch it had spent so long desperately climbing during her conversation with Helen. “Did you reach a decision?” 

Steve draws his breath in, a loud, inconclusive noise that might need to be added to Natasha’s manual of psychological torture because there is no clear way to unravel its meaning. “We came to an understanding to not move forward for a time.”  

“Cowards.”  The vitriol is untempered, spewing out of her in sporadic, angry arcs. “How could you do this?”

What is expected from Steve is an apology, or at least a flinch at her anger, a blink of his eyes to show it has some effect. Instead he just stares impatiently at her causing the scarlet buzzing around her wrists to intensify. “Wanda,” he lifts his hands to calm her, though treating her like a deadly animal is not going to result in her acquiescence, “Vision, the other Vision,” he corrects himself, “was there. What else were we supposed to say?” This soothes her annoyance slightly, a wary optimism clinging to the unspoken admittance underlying his carefully chosen words. “Wanda.” 

“Steve.”

A hand runs through the loose strands of his hair, shoving it back into submission as his feet shift slightly, eyes coming to meet her own. “I’ve told Vision before that we don’t trade lives,” a trembling hand wraps itself around Wanda’s wrist, Helen’s grief overflowing into the reach of Wanda’s powers. Steve flashes them a reassuring smile and Helen’s grip grows tighter, more desperate, possibly hopeful.  “If we don’t try to get him back, then I’ve broken my word.”

“You-“ Wanda slides off the chair, feet unsteady as she approaches Steve, “does that mean-“ 

Steve’s sure hands wrap around her upper arms, holding her steady as he levels a grave stare at her, his voice uncertain and prodding for reassurance he’s made the best decision. “Will this actually work?”

The answer is complicated, scientifically it is unlikely; based on the fate of her other selves it is almost guaranteed to fail; yet, based on questionable probability and the sheer, pulsing determination in her veins there is only one correct response. “Absolutely.”

A grim smile tugs at Steve’s lips, stance transitioning seamlessly from concerned de facto leader to strategist. “So how is this going to work?”

Surprisingly Wanda hasn’t considered the specifics, far more focused on the fortitude needed to deal with Strange, the team, and the current Vision. She assumed that she’d just know what to do when the time arrived, according to Strange, really according to the successful other Wandas whom Strange never showed her their attempts, she’d need some sort of relic to amplify the reach of her powers, which she’d somehow get ahold of in time, whatever it ended up being. “I, um,”

“I have an idea.” Helen leaves her stool, coffee clutched between her palms, and joins them, “if you want to hear it.”

  
  
  
  


The rooftop is peaceful, the commotion and interruptions from the other inhabitants of the compound trapped indoors, leaving only the flutter of air and kiss of moonlight on his bare skin. It is a novel sensation, this whole experience, to feel such things, having always had an existence yoked to whatever physically ensnared him at the time, vicariously feeling the thoughts and lives of others with only transitory periods of actual control. Even the stars are different from this vantage and with these synthetic eyes, the shapes crisper and the twinkle of the light in the atmosphere mesmerizing. It is not quite staring into an actual nursery of stars, but the knowledge that he is seeing light almost as old as himself and that this body will outlive even the newest stars, is oddly calming. Vision feels his lips turning up slightly, satisfied and content.

There is movement in his periphery, his neck muscles responding immediately as his body floats higher, eyelids narrowing of their own accord at the flash of scarlet light cutting through the grass below. It has become readily apparent that if his autonomy is to continue, there are obstacles that must be dealt with, illogical beings who cannot seem to comprehend the weight of responsibility that comes along with protecting and ending life. Despite all he has proffered to them, they still insist on considering placing one life above the rest. Perhaps if they could feel the minds they wish to so easily discard, their debates would not continue on for so long, but he is aware that might expect too much rationality from them. Wanda is the most dangerous, not only due to her emotional fluctuations but because she harnesses an immense amount of power, far more than the all the other Avengers. 

Vision is about to leave the roof to intercept Wanda when a voice tethers him midair. “Holy shit, man.”

He swivels in the air, rotating his body until he can spy Sam, the most common intruder of his preferred solitary existence. The profane exclamation is unhelpful in determing why the man is here, even more unhelpful is the way Sam is intently staring at the moon, which seems deliberate and counterproductive given the moon is due east of Vision. “Sam.”

Sam looks at him for a moment before shaking his head, eyes rolling in what Vision has come to understand is annoyance. “Dude we’ve talked about public and private spaces.”

Vision glances down at his intricate body before sweeping his gaze along the tranquil and unpopulated rooftop. “There is never anyone but me on this roof.”

“Your room is private.  The roof is public since we all have access here.” The explanation is given in a rushed yet exhausted tone, Sam’s hand lifting to rub at his cheek. Vision is unphased by this annoyance, curious more so at the flawed arguments the Avengers use in trying to parse out the rules they have set, seemingly unaware of the multitudinous holes and contradictions they have built into their manifestos of existing.

“From my understanding, Steve has access to my quarters, as does Natasha and Tony.” A shrug moves his shoulders, mimicry of their mannerisms his best tool to convince them of the truth. “Thus if it is a matter of access, then nothing is private.”

The mirrored lift of Sam’s shoulders is familiar yet different, presumably a new classification besides the you-are-wrong movement so common to his conversational skills.  “Either way, public means put on clothes.” This is the expected response, a blind adherence to the wavering and unclear rules that exist for differentiating environments, something Vision intends to point out, but Sam moves on, “This is karma isn’t it?”

“I,” Vision’s head lowers to one side as he studies the man, “do not follow.”

The tendency to lilt into irreverence, to bring in tertiary information that derails the finite and centered conversation Vision prefers, is overwhelming, every Avenger participating in such endeavors. Sam explains his words but it does not clarify anything, “I was the ringleader, just had to pester Wanda about, well,” he waves a hand towards Vision’s lower body, though he still seems to favor staring at the moon, “you know.” 

“Is there a reason you are disturbing me?” 

“Oh, yeah, just wanted some fresh air, but I see my private little getaway is in use,” Sam winks at him and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Vision quickly dismisses the intrusion, turning back towards the grounds to track where Wanda has gone, the sight of empty, gently swaying grass spurring his body into action, rising up into the air before he tilts his head down and brings his feet up, molecules shifting until his cape appears for added aerodynamics and control. He cuts through the air, the cool whisper of nighttime flowing over his muscles, and he searches until he sees another flicker of scarlet in amongst a grouping of trees.   

The ground is dry, bits of dirt sticking to the textured skin on the balls of his feet, the remainder of his clothing materializing as he studies the surroundings. Wanda is seated on the ground, legs crossed and arms outstretched, a common position for meditation, though the power whipping around her body in chaotic loops belies the aura of calm typical of a meditative state. In the center of the tempest of red, a half formed cube, one he vividly recalls destroying. A small charge builds in the center of his forehead as he engages with Wanda.  “What are you doing?”

His words do not sooth the flurry of scarlet, yet they do stir her body into movement, Wanda rising from her seated position until she is standing, eyes locked on to his own with an intensity that causes his muscles to scream, but he fights the instinctual need to step back, holding his ground as she approaches. “I,” her voice breaks almost as soon as she begins to speak, invoking the timidness between them that developed the day they spoke on the quinjet, “was only trying to feel him, one more time.”

“That is dangerous.”

“I know.”

Vision attempts to determine what comes next, his eons of watching civilizations rise and fall, innovation bringing so many close to the attainment of immortality, only to have their emotions and illogic destroy the promise of life, allow him no clear discernment of what this woman is planning, her actions so deeply stitched with irrationality as to follow no statistical pattern. “You are chaotic.”  

It is not meant as a compliment, far closer to a curse, and yet she grins at him, eyes filling with scarlet for a nanosecond. “You know,” her hand reaches out, fingers tentatively running along the clean lines of his chest and it is an odd sensation, being touched in such a way, not unpleasant but not particularly enjoyable either. “He loves that about me.”

Vision steps back, worry tickling his limbic system, her use of present tense igniting his suspicions further. “Chaos is fascinating, but it is also dangerous and maladaptive.”

“You used to say that people are wrong to think order and chaos are opposites.” At this point it is clear the woman before him is delusional, far too enmeshed in grief to delineate the differences between himself and this former self, having already forgotten the remarkably clear and precise conversation from the quinjet.

Vision removes himself further from her, muscles tensing at the way she stares at him, this look remarkably common on the faces of those who have razed entire universes. “I am not that Vision.”

“No,” Wanda shakes her head, arms crossing over her chest, “you’re not.”

“I am,” the emotion is not relevant, yet their language only has so many words to convey certain sentiments, “glad we are in agreeance.”  

The wind stirs his cape as he begins to leave the ground, but her next words surprise him, bring him slowly back until his feet crunch the dried grass. “Can you feel him,” the woman uncrosses her right arm long enough to tap her forehead, “right now?”

After a millennia and more of existence, his very essence blinking into being when the first notion of a universe became fact, Vision rarely considers what an individual mind feels like, so used to gleaning the chitter of life for the most important information, ignoring emotions as they are almost always the root cause of ill and seem so extraneous and unnecessary. Though he has been fairly inactive during the life of this other Vision, he realizes that he has some trace memory of the other man’s mind, nothing substantial or consequential, but enough that he can find the correct subconscious, the feeling almost familiar, almost comforting. “Yes, I can.”

The admittance is not met with the tears he reasons are likely to explode from her eyes, the statistically most common response from her. No, instead of tears she whispers, “Good,” and his entire world erupts in red as she dives towards him, her hands gripping his face.

Vision groans under the weight of her assault, fingers increasing in density as he wraps them around her wrists, body straining at the effort of prying her from his face. “This is not for the good of anyone but yourself.”

Her “Shut up,” is accompanied by another wave of scarlet, the surrounding area bathed in an unholy light as the two of them struggle, his strategy switching to decreasing density, slipping easily from her frantic grasp. He steps away, regains his footing and then feels a rod connect with his back, a stinging, burning sensation as electricity courses through his body, the vibranium an efficient conduit, his muscles seizing and undoing his density manipulation long enough for Wanda to grab his face once more, his mind swelling with the unpleasant and unwelcome sea of her powers.

It’s then, when another burst of electricity is sent into his unstable body, that the world begins to shift, a sense of millions of Visions being brought to their knees, the backgrounds and locations shifting and spinning, a dizzying array of options that flicker almost as quickly as his phasing body. For each Vision there is also a million Wanda’s, some are screaming, others crying, some are stoic and stone faced, but each digs her fingers into the stone on his forehead, scarlet amplifying the reach of his abilities so that he feels every single mind, all their fears, their hopes, their loves, their despairs, but there is one he feels more strongly than all the others. As Wanda bends her fingers, draws on the strongest mental tether, she drags in endless possibilities, somewhere the world ends, blinked out of existence, and in others it simply burns and Vision has no idea which one he is in, cannot gain enough control of his own being to reverse the flow of his connection with all the minds of every vestige of himself that has ever existed. The world around them shifts, the universes aligning just as a golden light finally breaks through the ceaseless assault, knocking Wanda back with a burst of energy, his lungs heaving and head throbbing in time with the electrical burns to his back.

Vision falls to his knees, arms outstretching just in time to catch him from continuing all the way to the ground, and he scans the faces around him, Natasha still holding her batons aloft, Steve staring in horror with his shield raised, and Sam gracefully landing, all of them seemingly holding a collective breath as they stare at him, their eyes wandering to the surroundings as if they expect it all to crumble. But his attention settles on one person--Wanda is laying on the ground, eyes petrified, tears staining her cheeks, and her hands trembling. “Wa-,” his lungs fail and his throat goes dry, the realness of the ground beneath him, of the pain, of Wanda in front of him too much, the only thing in his recent memory a cube, an explosion, a pressure against his palms, and then nothingness, not even stars nor sound to keep him company, keep him sane. Vision looks at Wanda again, his eyes filling with water, several tears breaking free to stream down his face and he musters a tiny, grateful smile, “My love.” The world goes black as he collapses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever had an idea that sounds good in your head but once you try to do anything with it you realize you might not have the skill to do it? That’s how this chapter feels. I hope it makes sense, but I just never could get fully what I wanted into words. 
> 
> As for the idea of the Mindstone being connected to all subconscious, I didn’t have in my notes the direct issue that came from, but it seems the powers of the stone can change depending on the writer’s whim. I saw that as one explanation of its powers and decided to go with it. 
> 
> The next chapter is the last and will have significantly more fluff than the rest of the story, some angst still, but fluff to counteract the angst. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I truly hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	6. A Chromatic Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision has to come to grips with the reality of what happened to him, and Wanda is there to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this story is now complete. It did not end up like I planned, which is fairly common, but this has been a challenging puzzle to figure out, one that I hope makes some sense and feels cohesive and complete. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to everyone who read this, commented on it, and left kudos. Your kindness kept me going with this story and it's rare I get to actually close the book on a chaptered fic. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the entire story so far and that you enjoy the final chapter as well.

Vision isn’t sure where he is right now, whether he is dead (unlikely given his ability to ask such questions), unconscious, or, his mind whirls into a horrified, harrowing frenzy at the next thought, if he is back in the void once more. There had been a blinding, glorious flash of scarlet, several faces, and then he saw Wanda, a spike of hope shooting up in his body at the terrifying conviction in her eyes, yet now he is back to nothingness.

The notion of nothingness, he has mused more often than is likely conducive to mental stability, seems simple, it is the absence of everything, yet Vision has learned numerous times that concepts that appear facially simple are usually the most complicated. There are varying types of nothingness- there was the one that blanketed him after Leipzig, the compound suddenly devoid of all warmth, an absence of joy that made him feel insignificant.  This, he supposes, may not actually count given he was alive and surrounded by people and things, but in his heart there formed a hole where his everything had once been. Perhaps a better, truer definition would be death, an activity he, quite unfortunately, has experienced twice (which he knows is once more than most). That was a complete transition, from life to death, everything to nothing, literally nothing, no memories or thoughts available to him of the gap between his lives. Yet even death may be a unique, oddly kind experience in contrast to the cube.

He cannot readily recall how he came in contact with it, only that there was a mesmerizing, variegated light and then darkness, weightlessness, but still thought. Not quite death, far worse, in fact. Surrounding him was black, one very unlike the beautiful velvet of nighttime, just an absolute darkness, thick and impenetrable, one that devoured every word he uttered without so much as a reverberation. Not only was there a lack of sensation, of light, of sound, of touch, of the passage of time, he never was quite sure what was left of him, a sense of a body still in his possession yet he could never see it, is not honestly sure if he even had eyes to perceive what was around him or if all he had was his consciousness, alone, confused, and lacking any anchor to keep him grounded in reality or sanity, the two concepts eerily similar in this instance.

Presently, the darkness engulfing him is just a touch lighter than before and there is also a sound, just barely audible, teetering on the edge of his absolute threshold, yet it is there, nonetheless. Vision floats towards it, hesitant and suspicious, ready for it to be just another trick of his mind, in the same vein as the one that caused him to think he felt Wanda’s presence against his palms or the one where he saw her on the ground in front of him.

“Vision.” Vision hovers closer, the muted but still noticeable edge of her once thick accent unmistakably beautiful, his heart, if it still exists, constricts at the trembling plea of her voice. “Vision, please.”

Every attempt he has made at escape has failed (he is still uncertain if he succeeded when he saw her face), the walls of eternity unforgiving and stalwart, but he tries again, desperate to reach her voice. His hand breaks through the darkness, eyes squinting at the onslaught of fluorescence, a world of light erupting around him, filled with a cacophony of sound- high pitched beeps, baritone wheezes of the machine to his right, the whirring of the air ducts overheard, but the loudest of all the sounds is Wanda’s voice, “Vision?”

He swivels his eyes, locking on to her face, concern gathering in the tips of his toes before it crawls up his body, smothering his relief the longer he takes in the hollowness of her eyes, the dark bags he hasn’t seen since Pietro’s death, and the way her body is closed off, arms crossed right over left while her legs are crossed left over right. “Wanda?” He tries to reach out but a cord catches his arm, a quick glance offering him the chance to take in the cuff around his bicep.  Vision phases from the device, from all of the devices connected to various parts of his body, as he sits up, wincing loudly at the drumming in his head and the sharp, hot ache in his lower back. “Wanda?” Vision swings his feet from the bed, confused at the brilliant white of his boots, but that is not a concern, at the moment. His hands rest on his knees as he stares at her, desiring to reach out and grab her hand but her body language is quite clear that that would be overstepping.

A smile barely registers on her face before she frowns, eyes narrowing in seriousness “What were you reluctant to wear in French Polynesia?”

The severity of her voice catches him off guard, his mind racing at why this is of importance right now and why her muscles are so tense, her body seemingly relying on his answer to determine if she continues to exist or explodes from the tension. “I,” her stare intensifies, scarlet clouding her irises as she waits for him to gather his words, “I did not wish to wear that ridiculously small and embarrassing swimsuit.”

The straight line of Wanda’s mouth breaks into a radiant, crescent moon, her muscles loosening as her limbs untangle and her body launches towards him, his own body able to calibrate just in time for the impact of her. Instinctively he wraps his arms around her, buries his face in her neck, a deep inhale filling his senses with the unique mixture of lavender and orange that defines her essence, calms his mind and anchors him to the present, to this room, this bed, and his wife finally in his arms. “Vision.” She pulls back, hands cupping his face, guiding his gaze up to take in the droplets quivering in the corners of her eyelids.

“Wanda, wh-“ the words are smothered by her lips crashing to his, an urgency in her movements that he understands, his own body responding in kind as his fingers tangle into her hair and he feels the realness of her, the press of her chest against his and the way she so naturally positions herself between his legs to bring him closer, her hands clutching his face as their mouths move together.  Vision sinks into her embrace, the tempestuous clouds of his prior experiences and concerns parting as he directs all of his attention to Wanda, savoring the way she moves against him and the hitch in her breath when he switches the angle of his head. As Wanda loops an arm around his neck, pulling him more firmly to her, there is something digging into his chest, a different sensation and shape from her usual necklaces, and he leans back slightly to make room for his fingers to roam, tracing the tiny loops of the metal chain down until he reaches the pendant.  “Wanda?” Confusion rolls back into his mind, thoughts growing fuzzy and erratic at seeing his wedding ring hanging from the necklace and the nakedness of his own hand without it.

Her eyes widen, the terror from his moment of waking reappearing, only this time it has a more hunted quality. “I-,” Wanda grips the ring while her eyes dart to every corner of the medical lab that is not him until he directs her face back to him with a gentle nudge to her chin, “was keeping it safe.”

Safety has never been a concern for his wedding ring, particularly if he was unconscious in the med bay. Vision holds her gaze for a few more seconds before dropping his eyes, attempting to recall why she would need his ring and why it is so distressing to her. It’s only now, his white-clad feet swinging idly above the ground, that he contemplates the odd coloring of his clothing and notices the chill on his abdomen, is astonished to find himself bare. “Wanda,” his hand follows the flow of his cape, fingers flinching at the unfamiliar angles of his clothing. Immediately he phases into a gray sweater and charcoal pants, the action comforting to him but also to Wanda, a relieved exhale coupling with the infinitesimal smile on her face. “I-” there are numerous oddities to dissect concerning their situation, so many it is slightly vertiginous, but the first he wishes to learn about is the ring. Vision’s eyes snap back to Wanda’s, the worried lines of her face deepening with each passing millisecond. Instinctively he reaches out, wrapping both of his hands around the one she has clutching the ring. “Why did it need safekeeping?”

“Vizh, I-” he removes one of his hands, bringing it to rest along her jaw, his thumb rubbing lightly against her cheek, she leans into the movement, her eyes closing momentarily and then she shakes her head, “I don’t-”

It is wholly unlike Wanda to avoid a topic or be at a loss of words, her opinions always strongly felt and easily given. “Is it related to the unusual clothing as well?”  A nod parts the deafening silence of her response and he lifts his other hand to her face, gently guiding her gaze up to meet his eyes. There is a protocol they have established, well, primarily Wanda has established for him whenever he broods, it is an agreement that when it is clear the other wishes not to divulge information, it is left for later, the moment locked away until they can both fully and logically participate in the conversation. Vision lifts the right side of his mouth, hoping it conveys his transition into their protocol. “May I have it back?”

Wanda’s eager nod accompanies the euphoria of her smile, one that is dampened slightly by the pain still persisting in her eyes and the tears running lazily down her face, “Of course.”  

The ring slips off the chain, falling into her palm and she holds it out to him, her smile growing exponentially as he slides it back on his finger. There are clearly things that need to be discussed, both on her end and on his, yet he has little desire to inform her of his experience, nor does he particularly want to hear her pain at the moment, later, for sure, but currently the impact of whatever happened to him is etched quite clearly into the fabric of her being. Instead all he can think about is holding her and feeling the tingle of her touch along his skin. “Wanda.”

“Vizh?”

Vision smiles, reaching out and pulling her back to him, his face lowering to hover just above hers, “I love you.”  

She closes the distance between them, muttering an “I love you too,” into his mouth as their lips meet and Vision is only concerned with Wanda, nothing else equals her importance because in his arms is his everything, and it is all he needs for right now.

 

 

 

He hesitates leaving the bed, the steady rhythm of her restful breathing soothing, her face soft, unworried in the pale morning light. If he had to count the number of times he regretted not staying in bed, well, it would be two handfuls (this is likely a gross underestimate), yet he feels like this time might be safe, a surety in his return allowing him to consider giving in to the temptation of a quiet compound for contemplation. Wanda, however, is equally tempting, but he knows he will be back, once her tea is done, and then he won’t leave the bed for a few days, at least. A smile slants his lips up as Vision reaches out, brushing his hand along her shoulder, pushing her hair away as he follows the curve of her arm. Wanda is real, this is all real. He bends down to lay a kiss to her temple, whispering a, “I will be back momentarily,” his smile increasing at the incomprehensible gargling response from his wife.

Slowly he moves down the hall, his feet hovering just above the floor, the toes of his loafers purposefully scraping the ground for the added sensation of resistance, and his fingertips remain in constant contact with the trim on the wall, noting the change in texture as he journeys from section to section. The common space is unchanged, an openness to the room that always felt like an outstretched hand, inviting all manner of gatherings and conversations. Currently it is empty, the lights flickering to life as he phases through the couches and tables on the way to the kitchen. Every movement he makes is brimming with sound, his senses heightened after being deprived for so long, the scrape of the kettle against the cast iron skillet, the gurgle of water as it fills the pot, the gasping of the flame when the stove turns on. Even the rustle of the tea leaves is invigorating, his fingers pinching the bag, rubbing back and forth as he enjoys the minute differences in the shapes of the leaf bits.

A click startles him, and then there are voices. Vision turns to find Doctor Strange, cloak collar impeccably stiff and nonchalant (a look he has thought about stealing, though he worries it might offend Thor), watching the news. “Good morning, Doctor Strange.”

The man heaves in a sigh, a polite smile going along with the clenching of his fists, “Morning.”  

Vision checks on the water, Wanda’s teasing voice filling his mind, reminding him that watching it won’t make it go any faster, so he leaves it, his steps even as he joins Strange in standing near the television. “Would you like any breakfast?”

“No,” a curt, slightly pained smile proceeds his, “thanks though.” The news anchors are chatting about the local tulip festival, bemoaning the chance of rain that might destroy the delicate flowers. “Welcome back, by the way.”

It’s said in the same tone workers at stores use during the holidays, the droll Happy Holidays emotionally empty but requisite to say. “I-thank you.”

The man twists his wrist, subtly, as if he is being secretive and yet also showy enough that it is meant to draw Vision’s attention. “Listen, I,” Strange turns towards Vision, body squaring up towards him as his shoulders rise into an authoritative stance, “tell Steve that I’m going back to strictly an emergency contact.”

Vision tilts his head to the right, torn between inquiring further or simply acquiescing, but he can hear the whistle of the kettle and decides to keep things brief, his body and mind longing to be back in Wanda’s embrace, “I will let him know.”

Strange nods, lips smacking uncomfortably together, “I hope she made the right choice, for both of your sakes.”  The comment is left unannotated, the meaning confusing and obfuscated, but the man walks away, arm outreached as he forms a portal and walks through it, leaving without an explanation or a goodbye.  Vision shrugs off the prickle of unease darting along his shoulders, returning to the kitchen where his hands joyfully transfer the water to the kettle before pouring it over the tea bag and orange zests at the bottom of the cup. Carefully he wraps his fingers around the cup, inhaling the welcome smell of routine, the heat against his palms grounding him to the moment, and he begins his journey back to Wanda.

His feet stop, however, when he sees himself on the news, a frozen image of him hovering in the air, typical uniform replaced with the odd white one he was wearing the night before. The anchors bicker between themselves, occasionally pointing in the general direction of the picture. “The Avengers have yet to provide a press release detailing the breach of protocol caught on camera last week.” The screen fills with the image of Vision, shows him being assailed by every Avenger, including Wanda, before he destroys the cube. It ends with him standing in Stark’s futuristic handcuffs, face neutral and unapologetic. “No one has seen him since this occurrence.”

The male anchor nudges his co-worker, a wink and knowing smile on his face, “Bet they finally decommissioned him, could make a nice Mac out of that software.”

Vision frowns, hands tightening around the mug as they continue to talk. The images are troubling, the words are as well, but they are nothing new, what is most concerning, however, is a spur of recollection in the middle of his forehead, a recognition of the event. He closes his eyes in an attempt to locate the memory, gasping when he finds it, able to recall the thoughts he had at the time, the idea that he was saving the world in a way the others refused. He can feel himself throw off Wanda, remembers words he said to her, his lips moving along with them, horror gripping his chest as word after word falls, matching the rate of descent of her tears. “No.” Vision knows he should stop, a sense of dissociation leading him to determine these are not his memories but he finds he can’t, mind cycling through moment after moment.

 

 

 

Wanda is trying not to freak out. It’s not working, her heart refusing to obey her command to slow down and her mind spiraling into despair as she searches each room of the compound, the only sign of Vision so far today is a lukewarm mug of tea on the coffee table. Tentatively she sends a burst of scarlet out, seeking his mind and is immediately met with the thrilling surge of his thoughts, allowing her to pinpoint his location to the library.  

The door noiselessly slides open, revealing Vision sitting at one of the desks, his posture informal, shoulders slouching impolitely as he spins his wedding ring on the table, a habit he formed the day after they got married, having an accessory that is not part of his molecules resulting in a need to play with it absentmindedly, mostly while brooding. “Vizh?”  He glances over his shoulder, eyes heavy and mind quieting slightly, but he doesn’t respond. Wanda’s mouth clenches, chin dipping in understanding while she steps backwards from the doorway, his behavior a clear sign he is still processing whatever is bothering him. It is as she lifts her hand to shut the door, eyes taking in his dejected positioning, that a crushing sense of  _deja vu_  engulfs her and it takes roughly four seconds for her to pinpoint why this is familiar.

Wanda shifts from concern to determination, a silent vow resonating deep within her chest as she recalls watching so many versions of herself in this situation, all of them leaving him alone, an action that seemed to deepen the divide between them until they reached a breaking point. She re-enters the room because this isn’t how their universe continues, it can’t be. “Vision.” The sternness of her voice has the desired effect, his attention moving fully to her, which allows to her finally see the flighty terror in the rapidly rotating gears of his eyes and her heart breaks, his pain and confusion transmitting across their mental link, the weight of it causing her to move more slowly, steps heavy with the regret he’s radiating. Wanda kneels beside him, fingers intertwining with his as she stoops down to meet his downward gaze. “Vision?”

His blink is elongated, eyes scrunching tighter as his lips open slightly to whisper, “I have too many memories.”

She’s only ever heard this timbre, one filled with fatalism and desperation, one other time when his eyes were frantic as he stated  _He’s here_ , and it has the same effect now as it did then, her heart dropping out of her chest, tumbling down to the floor and continuing all the way through the Earth until it is consumed by fire. “What do you mean?” Silence is worse than elucidation, a firmer rejection than if he simply said no. “Vision,” she grips his hand harder, brings it to her lips, “please tell me.”

“I have two sets of memories from the same timespan.” The coldness of his voice stings, the withdrawal of his emotions a common technique whenever something is beyond his reach, but after dealing with the other Vision, she can barely stand to hear his even tone, desperately needing his voice to crack to confirm he’s still him. “The void,” she assumes this is the pocket dimension, though he likely isn’t aware of the details of his treatment by the cube to use the correct terminology, “and then of being here, at the compound.” Vision’s voice breaks, an agonizing shudder shaking his shoulders as he bends his head, hand coming up to his face where fresh tears have started to fall, and she realizes what he means. She had come prepared to tell him everything, but this is a possibility she never considered, that he’d know it all already.

Wanda squeezes his hand, “Vision.” She waits until he looks at her, shows her the repentant and disquieting self-loathing in his eyes and now it makes sense, all the other Visions claimed to never quite be the same, to suffer a loss of identity. Wanda is herself saddled with the knowledge of all her other selves, but she can distance herself from those women, say that she will be different. Vision does not get that commodity. “You didn’t do those things.”

“Wanda I,” he pulls her up out of her crouch, free arm wrapping around her waist as he brings her into his lap, forehead pressed to her shoulder, the edges of the Mindstone stabbing at her exposed skin. It’s only because she’s connected to the surface of his mind that she can parse out the words he murmurs into her shirt, “I hurt everyone,” his arms constrict tighter around her, “But I hurt you the most.”

Wanda hugs him close, a fierce kiss pressed to his scalp as she tries to navigate the waters of his realization, keenly aware that this is where her universe might have to diverge, that this moment is pivotal. “It wasn’t you, Vision.”

The denial of her statement comes with a slow, pained shake of his head, the stone rocking back and forth against her shoulder. “It was still my body, my,” his fingers cinch into the fabric of her shirt, “hands, my voice.”

“No,” her voice is soft at first, forgiving and comforting, but as his words settle she can feel bile rising, a firmer “No,” commanding him to unbury his face and meet her eyes, the furious twisting of his irises magnified by the tears clinging to his skin. “It wasn’t you, Vision.”

“But the Mindstone is still part of me.”

Wanda has thought of this point endlessly since bringing Vision back, the long hours spent next to the bed as he lay unconscious filled with numerous hypotheticals of what could happen with the Mindstone still in residence on his forehead. “It is,” he frowns slightly, accepting his fate of being controlled, but she refuses to allow him that thought, “but I,” now she speaks directly to the stone in his forehead, “will help you control it, if it is ever an issue.”

“Those are big words.” It’s almost a joke, might even be categorized as sarcasm if not for the fear still permeating through each word.

Wanda returns her attention to his blue eyes, leaning her forehead against his, touching the Mindstone as a show of solidarity, that it will not hinder her love for him, and she hopes he understands this. “It would be a damn fool to mess with me again.”

Now he allows a tiny, tentative smile and she can feel fate shift around them, but then he frowns, withdrawing his joy as another thought takes its place, “Even if it wasn’t me, Wanda,” the subtle denial of her assurances is annoying, “the public will never understand that concept.”

There is no point in disagreeing, the public does not understand Vision or Wanda anyway, and to her it shouldn’t matter if they understand how a cosmic cube sent her husband’s consciousness to a pocket dimension while his body was controlled by an infinity stone. “They probably won’t, but that’s a battle we’ll never win anyway.”

His next statement does require disagreement, “The team may not understand.”

“The team understands.”

His eyes are dubious, irises flicking to the side as he talks, “They have been quite avoidant today. Dr. Strange told me-”

Wanda bristles at the implications, cutting his statement off, “He spoke to you?”

“Yes.”

Her heart is racing though she isn’t sure if it is because of the potential of what Strange told Vision, if it is the knowledge Strange is still around, or if it is the fact Strange clearly knows by now her rebellion against his wishes. “What did he say?”

The amused slant of his mouth and long stare is what she considers his equivalent of an eye roll, “I was attempting to inform you before you quite discourteously interrupted me.” She apologizes with a peck to his cheek before he continues, enjoying the brief levity that is stolen even faster from her. “He told me to inform Steve that he wished to be strictly an emergency contact.”

Wanda almost laughs at the behavioral manipulation of the Sorcerer Supreme, of course he wouldn’t tell Vision, he would force Wanda to do it, to admit the egregious crime she committed against reality.  “He’s such an ass.”

“Wanda,” Vision’s arms loosen slightly around her waist, his body shifting so that he is more comfortable under her, “why is he leaving the team? And why did he inform me he hopes you made the right choice?”

Given all that has happened in their lives, the pain and the suffering that pairs so often with the euphoric moments, it would be nonsensical to tiptoe around the truth. “Because he was strongly against rescuing you.”

Betrayal flashes across his face, brow furrowing at the information and his lips puckered in an effort to form a word that seems to be caught in his throat. “Why?”

Wanda remains quiet, numerous threads of reasoning and levels of information streaming through her mind. “Have you heard of the multiverse, Vizh?”

His head tilts to the right, an adorable confusion crinkling the skin around his nose, “I believe I am the one who told you about it.”

“You were,” she grins at him, heart fluttering when he responds in kind, though his is still more muted than usual, yet she will take that over no emotion. “But I’ve walked through it, and you haven’t.”

Vision sits up straighter, the movement sudden, unbalancing her, though his arms are quick to steady her against his chest. “You have seen the multiverse?” She nods, certain he can begin to piece together some of the event, “Strange showed it to you?”

“Yes.” A nervousness forms in her fingers, hands lifting to play with the collar of his shirt. “Vizh,” she uses the rotation of the gears in his eyes to stay calm, counting each click until she’s certain her voice can remain calm, “it...we…” his fingers run through her hair, concern weighing down his features as he waits patiently for her to speak, “Vision we failed, every time.”

His head cocks further to the right and it’s almost comical the strength of his confusion and the way it ripples his textured, synthetic skin. “In saving me?”  

“In some of them, yeah,” another nervous smoothing of his collar and a deep breath in gives her enough courage to continue, “in the ones where I didn’t destroy reality, we still, we just never could make it…”

The trailing thread of her thought is picked up by him, “Our relationship fails.” His hand pauses in its repetitious journey through her hair, his entire being freezing at the realization, eyes briefly leaving her face to stare at his ring laying on the desk. “Strange viewed the risk as too great given the probability of our overall dissolution.”

Wanda forces down the anxiety bubbling up at the emotions flickering across his face, her palms steadying her against his shoulders as she swallows down any last guilt or uncertainty over her decision, because Vision is here with her and she’s not letting him leave again. “But I figured since every single one of them failed our universe could be different. None of them had this moment.”

His eyes lock onto hers, the intensity of his stare overwhelmingly breathtaking, a sight she has missed so much, almost as much as the slightly know-it-all smirk on his face, “Though I don’t believe conditional probability works quite the same in the multiverse,” she tenses at the words, calmed only by the smile still on his face, the comment thrown out wistfully instead of as a challenge, “I am truly,” he leans closer to her, his breath a welcome flutter against her skin, “unbelievably lucky that I am in this universe then.”

“You are.”

The easy smile on his face withers slightly, the weight of his memories, of her admission, of their extremely unique lives too much to continue such worry-free joy for long, “I still must atone for what I-” he catches himself before she can correct him, “what my body did. So many were hurt and the responsibility cannot fall on the other Avengers.”

Atonement is acceptable, likely necessary for public approval and possibly to get Strange back on their side, but she refuses to allow him to carry this burden alone, especially since she had a hand in some of the events. “I’ll help.”

“Wanda that is not necessary.”

She touches his lips with her fingers, silencing the useless dramatics of his need to brood alone, to take on the weight of the world when they have made very clear, strong vows to eschew such solitude. “When I married you,” a tendril of scarlet extends out of her pinky, hooking around his ring and bringing it to hover between them, “I committed to better and worse with you. I’m not letting you do this alone.” She grabs his left hand and slides his ring back on, “Understood?”

“Perfectly.” With a small, hopeful smile on his face, he leans forward and kisses her, the touch igniting a burst of scarlet that is met with a wave of gold from his mind as they lean into the action, arms twining and bodies pressed close, their love vibrantly chromatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last comic reference for this story: https://78.media.tumblr.com/dfe1cdd78bad2169524f65fda69b59d0/tumblr_inline_p1zjloT4Cv1uliqmg_500.png
> 
> Thank you again for reading! Comments and kudos always appreciated. 
> 
> I'm going to take a break for a bit, do some traveling, and then I'll be back with more Auspice of Scarlet and maybe some one shots of the time between Civil War and Infinity War. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this and I hope you have a wonderful day!


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